


Jordan: Redux

by JodyBarsch



Category: My So-Called Life
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Angst, Anorexia, Claire Danes - Freeform, F/M, Het and Slash, High School, Jared Leto - Freeform, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Language, Multi, My So-Called Life AU, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JodyBarsch/pseuds/JodyBarsch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revival of Ace Hart Hunter's excellent slash story "Jordan". Jordan Catalano is drowning in a paradox of excess & self-denial - looking for salvation, distraction, a connection. His addiction and bed hopping seem to be leading him nowhere, yet he always ends up back at Tino's. Redux fleshes out the original 4 chapters plus 2 more. *Absolutely an act of fandom; LOVE the original! *</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Redux

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jordan](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/57268) by Ace Hart Hunter. 



> Right or wrong, this is a fanfiction of a fanfiction. The characters and world are Winnie Holzman's and Bedford Falls Productions, the re-imagining of the characters, their conflicts, and their world, as well as the original 5,852 words are all Ace Hart Hunter's. I have long loved this story and have waited for years for it to be continued, and, as one reviewer put it, for Rider to get let out of the bathroom. I mean no disrespect, nor do I claim this story as my own, it is not (though the majority of the writing is). I truly hope that it is taken in the sense that it was intended: an act of love and fandom (as is all fanfiction).
> 
> In doing this I did cut/change/add things along the way. In some cases to further explore the dynamics so fantastically created by Ace, in others to just a little bit more directly tie back to the reality originally established by the show, and in others to write the characters as I am able to write them. I hope this is something fans of the story will be able to enjoy. *I do not know how long this story will remain posted, nor if I will take it any further than I have (currently six chapters exist).

**One**

I once told Rickie Vasquez that my dad used to knock me around when I was younger. Until I threw a chair at him.

What I didn't tell him was that when it stopped it didn't take much longer for him to start beating me, with whatever he could find. He hits me a helluva lot harder now. At this point, both his rage and his motives have multiplied. Only thing that hasn't changed is the target.

And now, with just the use of my right hand, I'm driving as best I can to Tino's. As fast as I'm going — I'm too worked up to slow down — with blurred vision and only one working hand I'm terrified I won't be able to make the turns. The water on the road isn't helping any. Still I step harder on the gas. My tires screech. I'm all about self-preservation, but nothing in me's ever been cautious.

While I try to keep my mind on my driving, eyes on the road and all that, that isn't what's in my head. 'Cuz it happened again tonight.

He came at me with a crescent wrench.  _Where did that come from? I_  don't know what he did to my wrist but it really hurts and I can barely move my fingers. Tino will be pissed.

* * *

Standing before me in the doorway to his apartment, taking me in, the battered, broken, bedraggled all of me, he _is_  furious. Tino always takes it hard when I'm the one that's hurt.

"Jesus Catalano!" he grumbles, and leaves the doorway to go about getting me an ice pack. "What the hell set him off this time?"

I slump into the nearest chair and mumble something about the rain knocking the cable out.

That wasn't it of course. Something like that had been mentioned somewhere between blows, but the truth is he doesn't need a reason. Never has. He'd say  _I'm_ the reason; Tino'd say it's  _him_. What I know is that I wince when Tino drops the ice on my wrist and my old man got all the 'reason' he ever needed last spring when he walked in on something he shouldn't have.

I never told Tino 'bout that night.  _What would he do with that information if I had?_

"You can move your fingers, right?" Tino's standing over me, wanting me to be okay, wanting an excuse to go after the old man. There's adrenaline coursing through him and I can't tell which desire is winning out. Even through one eye I can see he's struggling to hold himself to that place in front of where I'm sitting. Tino's not exactly one for letting things go. But then again, he's not in control of everything.

I wiggle my fingers in demonstration to distract him, grimacing through the pain as I do.

Seeing me able to do so alleviates some of the tension and soon he's breathing more regular and allowing himself to move from that spot on the hardwood. "Probably just a really nasty bruise or sprain then…" he says, mostly to himself. "I think Rider left a brace here," he's definitely talking to himself now as he heads into the bathroom just off the hall. "If not, I  _know_  I have some tensor bandages." I will myself to stay upright and conscious until he returns. Keeping my focus external from myself I hear the metallic pull and swing of the medicine cabinet as he opens it and searches for what he needs.

Soon enough he returns triumphantly with both items in hand.

"I am the best!" Tino proclaims and sits beside me in the all too commonplace scene of putting me back together again. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. I don't say that shit to him though, it'd only piss 'im off.

So instead I murmur some sort of agreement and just kinda zone out on him while he works. He's trying to be gentle as he wraps my wrist but it hurts like hell just the same and leaves me wishing he'd done a little more rifling in that medicine cabinet and brought me some pills, or at least a beer. I try finding something positive to focus on but nothing comes to me and I get depressed when I really can't think of anything.

"Ta da!" He laughs, adjusting the brace as snugly as he can around my wrist. Tino's the darkest, moodiest guy I know, but even so, it doesn't take much to make him happy. Though maybe right now the smile's just for my benefit. Tino's like that. But I don't need to be cheered up. I'm not a little kid. I was shaken up in the car, 's only normal, but I'm steady enough now, steady for me anyway, and I don't need someone playing nursemaid with me and trying to get me to smile. Even if it's him.

"Thanks T," I yawn. But the brace is already shifting out of place. Not enough velcro. Or, too much? I'm not sure. Either way, when Tino pulls the strap to tighten it around my arm, there's no velcro where the strap ends up hitting. His smile, which I still doubt was ever sincere, fades as he studies the problem for a solution. Because I know him I can tell what's going through his head; he's debating whether to ditch the brace altogether in favor of the bandage, or to use the bandage to secure the black brace. He opts for the second, I'm guessing because he figures in the end it'll offer more support. He's less proud of himself when he finishes this time and that's because it's brought up something he hates just as much, or maybe even more, than my old man.

"Need a freakin' child's size," he mutters bitterly. "How fucked up is that?" He straightens up. " _It's sick_."

Since he's pretty much directing this criticism  _at_ me, he isn't expecting any kind of response. Which is good, 'cuz things are closing in on me fast. They do that now and then. And as the room gets darker, and my head gets warmer, and my vision narrower, I somehow push myself outta the chair I'd initially sunk into and drift over to the couch where I collapse in exhaustion.

And then Tino's there, propping me up so he can drop down next to me. When I flop back into place my head is in his lap.

It's cool though.

"Tired?" he teases, tangling his fingers in my hair and leering at me.

I just look at him blankly because we both know the answer; I'm always tired.

My one good eye shuts and I feel him run his hand up under my damp shirt.  _When did that happen?_  Was it the rain, or had I sweat through another shirt? I really should take it off, but I don't move — I'll take it off when he makes me — and instead I loosely concentrate on his fingers tracing the outline of my ribs. I used to have abs. There was a time when I'd had definition, a slight six-pack even, and real shoulders;  _hard to believe these days_. When he touches me like that I really hate that I don't have that strength for him to feel. And for two very different reasons.

He won't say anything out loud right now but he's made his point: he's saying I'd have more energy if I'd actually eat properly. I can't bring myself to do it though and it more than bugs him. But it's not something we really talk about. Unless it gets really bad. It's just one of those things. There's a lot that goes unspoken between us.

He moves his hand, now a little lower, and (as much as I hate to admit it) I squirm.

I'm still squirming with his hand under my shirt, a fingertip or two just below the belt line… when his mother walks in. She shoots us a wry look and Tino grins right back. God knows she's caught us up to far worse things.

That's cool too though because she gets a real kick out of it. Inside, I think she really whoops it up when she walks in on us making out. You can tell she likes it. I think she likes knowing her kid's his own person, drums to his own beat and all that. Really though, I don't know how political her reaction to us is; I think she just likes to see her kid happy. Plus, she just plain likes me. Always has. Mothers usually do.  _It's fathers_ , I reflect, as I reach to feel my swollen eye,  _things don't go so well with._

She's talking to us right now but I'm far too exhausted to follow or understand. I let Tino do the talking for us both so I can rest my eyes. Honestly though, I never talk all that much.

The next thing I know I'm being laid out on a bed and Tino is slipping in beside me. He's trying not to wake me and that's nice, but I don't want him to hurt himself in the process — which he will if he keeps this up. He may be everybody's golden boy, and my best friend, but  _careful_  is something he does badly.

To stop him from the bother, I roll over and kiss him lightly. He grumbles in annoyance with himself and flops the rest of the way in, pulling me close. His chest is bare and warm and I tuck into him, using him as a pillow.

…

"How long was I asleep?"

"Maybe two hours," he shrugs. "Momma was afraid you'd stopped breathing for a while."

"Still here."

"Mm, hmm," he agrees. "Go back to sleep."

"What was she saying?"

"What? When?"

"Before, on the couch."

"She's asking if it was your old man again."

"Yeah?" I get out between two deep breaths pulling me back into sleep. "What'd you say?"

"' _Who else?_ '"

Had I more energy what I did right then might've been a nod. She knows. And I know she knows. And she prob'ly knows that. She hates that it is this way, I know that. But this is the way it is. Saying something's not gonna—

Tino interrupts my thoughts when his arms tighten around me and I can't help but smile a little as I drift off, falling back to sleep. It was a rotten night, but it's not ending too badly.

* * *

I've never been a morning person, but I can definitely get used to the idea of waking up early if it means waking up to Tino kissing me. Kissing and…

And that scares me shitless. This isn't something I'm sp'osed to get used to. It isn't anything. Just, this thing, that happens.

But I don't need it. I don't need anyone. Tino's my friend. My best friend. And we'll always have each other's backs, but there's nothing here to get used to.

I push him away from my neck. He only laughs and shoots me that wicked grin.

Me and Tino… We've been friends for years. Met in sixth grade when he was just starting the first of his growth spurts and I was just trying my first cigarettes. There were a lot of 'Truth or Dare' games back then. We kissed a lot of girls. But we weren't only kissing girls.

We weren't really tight though until seventh grade; when he found me shaking in the bathroom and trying, but not quite succeeding, to keep from crying.  _Seems like there must be a sign somewhere telling people I'm easy to take advantage of, because so many have._

It was sometime after that we found we didn't need a game to dare us; we dared on our own. But, even now, years later, it's mostly something we never fully acknowledge. It is what it is.

Talking 'bout it will only change it. Turn it into something it's not. Something with rules, and expectations, and … boundaries.  _Shit._

Tino is like, the  _only_  person I really trust, and now my mind's trying to screw that up, telling me I want him in a way that was never part of the deal.  _Fuck_ ; there never even was a deal. I mean, it's true that we kiss and we touch and we fool around, but that's all it is. We're not lovers and we're _not_  dating. We're just — friends. …With…benefits. _J_ _esus, I hate the way that sounds._

But now something in my mind's working overtime to mess me up about it — more messed up than I already am. Not all that suddenly I'm thinking things like ' _This could be a regular thing'_ ; that every night it could be  _us_  in this bed. That'd be a whole different reason never to make it home, and one a lot better than being the punching bag kid with nowhere else to go. I'd never be that to Tino and his mom. I decided that years ago. Never long term anyways. Sharing a bed by choice's not the same as necessity — the excuse that's kinda always been there for us, available, as an abilbi, should we ever want it. We hadn't so far. But actually claiming that choice 'd definitely signify sum'in more than friendship. Even one with benefits.  _And what would doing that do?_

"Stop dreaming, Catalano." He's already showered and dressed and is looking at me strangely. For a second I'm afraid I said something out loud.  _That'd be just like me, to ruin everything I've got going for me._ But he gives no further indication of what he's thinking. "Get up. The maternal one 's making you some egg whites."

I groan.

I haven't really eaten breakfast since I was nine. When it fell on me to do it, I pretty much stopped the practice altogether. 'Sides, I'm never hungry in the morning, not even if I haven't eaten for the entire week. Which, right now, is actually the case.

"I'm not hungry." I'm aware that he's standing right in my eye line. I wonder if he's aware of the visual he's giving me.

But I doubt it; at the moment he's preoccupied. Tino groans and with sharp eyes looks me over. "When's the last time you ate?" There's no patience in his voice; he's asked this same question of me too many times for there to be any remaining traces of that. Now he's all business.

The lie comes easily: "Yesterday at lunch."

Tino sits once more on the bed, stretching his legs out, crossing them at his ankles. "What did you have?" His incredulity is mixed with boredom — we've had this conversation before. A lot.

The problem is, he wants to believe me, but he knows better. I hate lying to him but I'll just throw up if I eat anything now anyway. The lie agreed upon will keep us both satisfied.

"Grilled cheese."

He sighs in defeat and moves in to kiss me. Hard. He rolls me onto my back and runs his tongue along my bottom lip. I open my mouth to him but he pulls back just enough to break the contact between our lips.

"How's your wrist? Still hurt?"

"Yeah."

Tino sighs and helps me to my feet, nudging me towards the bathroom. "Shower; I'll rewrap your wrist after you eat." I'm about to point out we hadn't agreed I  _would_  eat when he starts again, no doubt strategically, "I'll find you something to wear."

And like so many other things, I let it go. "Thanks, T."

I shuffle into the hallway and into the bathroom. I avoid the mirror. I already know what I look like when I look like this.


	2. Chapter 2: Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not my story (but have surpassed the original's word count at this point).

"Jordan, wake up; you're gonna miss homeroom again." I inhale deeply as my eyes jar open. Not yet fully awake, I cannot move but can only stare at him in a daze.

I know where I am. Tino's black Chevelle in the south student parking lot at Liberty. I just don't remember getting there.

"Time for class," he says with mock enthusiasm. Tino's weird about school. He'll skip it for anything, and he's on time for absolutely nothing, which I fucking hate, but if nothing better's on the docket he'll be there for sure, pencils sharpened, books in hand, and me in tow. It doesn't bother me. School's as good a place as any to sleep. Mostly everybody to see is there, and since the Brain kid started working with me most of my teachers have laid off, making going nothing like the hassle it once was.

So I nod, and get out of his car. On my second step I slip on some ice (partially because of the jeans that are about 50 sizes too big for me) and nearly fall flat on my face. Except Tino catches me just in time.

"You gonna be alright?"

"Yeah…" I was actually glad for the ice and the too big pants. Glad at least for a credible excuse for why I might fall other than the low blood sugar and all that goes with it. I steady myself, blinking once very slowly as I do. "I'm cool; don't worry about it."

He will worry, but all the same he nods and lets go; he doesn't look convinced at all. "You're coming out with me tonight," he says. "And I'm taking you to dinner."

I agree because no food for a week is pushing it, even for me. And I don't like to say 'no' when he takes charge like that. Still I laugh though, 'cuz that's the strangest threat I've ever heard.

We make our way through the parking lot towards the main campus' side entrance and I think things over as we do.

It's not like I've ever really had a proper diet to begin with. Family values and good nutrition were never big at my place. Eating was only ever something I did when my body really told me to anyway, and now — since, I don't know, June?  _Has it only been that long?_  — I've just stopped listening.

So,  _yeah; okay,_  I have been eating less and less. It just… started happening, or, stopped happening. It's surprising what people will look past.  _Or maybe it's exactly what you'd expect._

Brian Krakow noticed. I went to his house once — to study for a midterm — and it must've clicked for him when I turned down everything offered aside from water. Which 's still pretty weird as I've gone months refusing food around other people and they've never caught on. But Brain saw it, probably not just from that one day.  _Kid's observant as hell._  He started spouting some psychobabble at me about feeling lost and wanting power over at least one part of my life. I get his meaning, I just don't agree with it. 'Cuz that's not especially it. If anything it's really more of an addiction. When I don't eat it's like a high; I get buzzed, I mellow out, and I hallucinate. It's an escape.

And it's legal. And cheap, if not exactly healthy.

Plus there's something 'bout being small… Like I said, I miss my muscles, but the slightness that comes with starving yourself, if that's what you have to call it, it gives me this rush that I can't describe.

Like I can be broken if mishandled — an outward fragility  _I'm_  in control of.

...

"So, can we? Like, cancel tutoring today?"

Apparently Brian's been talking at me, for a while. Standing there in the busy hallway during second passing period, I'm barely registering what he's saying. I almost wish I hadn't opted out on the eggs.

"Its not that I don't want to, you know, help, or whatever," he continues, "but like I said, I have this, thing, with the band, that I have to be at because I'm the first flute…" Brian does this thing, where he just can't shut up. At all. It, like everything else, is exhausting. "So, you okay with that?" He wants to do his band thing, but it's more than that; I can tell he's uncomfortable looking at my face. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window as I passed down the hallway earlier, the swelling's not too bad, but this isn't something Krakow's used to; he's more nervous than usual.

"Yeah… That's cool," I reply slowly. I'm still not exactly following him. I'm not even exactly sure how the conversation started, or how the last two periods of the morning passed.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." I shrug, scratching the back of my head. "I've been doing better anyway; I could use the break." I'd kill to get a nap in. If Tino's still around by then I can take advantage of that big backseat.  _What'd we ever do 'fore we could drive?_  Cars: gas-fueled freedom and apartments on wheels.

Brian, who doesn't realize I stopped thinking about him a couple minutes back, nods and leaves with relief. My eyes shut once more and I lean back against the wall of lockers again.

Rider is the next to find me. He can take the bruises and the small gash across my face, but he winces when I tell him 'bout what happened with my wrist.

"Keep that thing," he means the brace, "as long as ya need. Just, ah, make sure you take it off once in a while." He nods toward my hand, "That skin needs to breath." He takes his lunch — just a Cliff bar — breaks it and shoves half of it at me and makes me swear to eat it.

Rider's the tightest friend I have other than Tino, though I've known him for less than a year. Shane's up there too, but Shane doesn't take anything seriously, which is great at times but doesn't really lend itself to anything too real. Rider though, he just gets me; a lot of our shit is mutual. And like Tino he knows all about my food issues. Rider refuses to leave until I agree to eat some. I can't really see a way out of it, but then the bell to third rings and suddenly Foster's there ushering us to class and once again I'm out of eating something.

Morning classes were a breeze, which third turned out to be too 'cuz of the sub in English. I don't actually psyche myself up to eat the thing until math, fourth period of the day. It's 11:30 and the sharp, angry abyss in my gut is weighing on me more than I can stand. There's always a point when the dizziness and the euphoria wear off and I'm just left scared, and weak.

Maybe I  _do_  do this to feel in control — to feel  _something_ , but it isn't  _that_. I hate the feeling of being lost. Frightened. Weak. That's not what this is about. And that is when I eat.

Unfortunately, I only manage to take a small bite before Ms. Lerner snatches it from me and dumps it in the trash.

"No eating in class."

_Shit._

That one bite is killing me and I'm suddenly starving for more. I swear that my stomach has started to digest itself. It's not a cool feeling.

You gotta be careful, with stuff like this. You can take it too far and it'll take hours, sometimes days, to get back to feeling semi-okay again. I glower at Lerner for coming between the beast in my stomach and the only piece of salvation I'd seen today. But it was gone now, too late to make a thing over it.

"What's wrong?"

It's Angela Chase who's said it. Whispered, really.

That girl is a little intense. She's nice enough, but, slightly obsessive. Angela Chase is this weird combination of not being a — what's it called? —  _drama queen_  herself, but definitely always on the lookout for drama. She takes everything so seriously. She takes me so seriously. And she doesn't even know me; she doesn't have a clue. It's annoying the way she's always trying to get into my head, to force herself in. But, I figure I should play nice because I know I was a jerk to her before, and if there were game tape or anything, I guess it'd be me on record who actually started something up…

That was my mistake.

Don't start something casual with a person who doesn't know the meaning of the word.

But I did; so now here's the fallout: playing the role of the brooding Romeo so she can come to the rescue.  _Like she could rescue me from anything. She doesn't even know what she's seeing when she looks at me._  But I guess she's not all that bad; she's pretty enough, when she looks at me with those big dumb eyes of hers, and actually isn't saying anything for once. She's a change anyway, from the usual, and that's not bad every now 'n then. Plus, it's not the worst idea to occasionally spend time with a girl. So I've decided to make amends by making more of an effort to be friendly with her.

But, that doesn't make her any less intense.

I turn my head, just slightly, in her direction. "What's wrong?" she asks again.

 _Why is it I can take the concerned attention coming from Tino and Rider, but from her it just grates my nerves?_  It's been a long time since I've been mothered; I'm not exactly looking to start that up again at this point.

It's weird how she can be so concerned about me when she doesn't really even know me. I'm just that messed-up guy who sits by her in class.  _Okay_ , so I've kissed her. But kissing someone doesn't mean you  _know_  them. It doesn't even necessarily mean you  _like_  them.

I drop my head into my crossed arms so that my words come out somewhat muffled. "She," I gesture slightly, "took my food."

"Oh." I've confused her. "Well," she offers, "lunch is in," Angela Chase checks the clock, "like, ten minutes; you can—"

I sigh. "That  _was_  lunch."

" _Half a granola bar?_ "

I shrug because it's the truth and I don't really want to get into it with her. No way she'd get it if I tried to explain the whole deal with me and food. And if I did, then I'd have to tell her about my dad, and  _that_  is not going to happen. She already thinks she knows so much about me. She really latched onto that reading thing. But really, if she'd paid any attention when we were 'together', she'd of noticed the food thing. But something tells me Angela Chase sees what she wants to see; at least in regards to me. She's probably got a whole story worked out as to how my face got this way.

 _Well, let 'er think it._  Though no doubt generic and juvenile, I'm bored of the real story of my life. Anyway, there's nothin' terribly original in: drunk father wails on wan delinquent. At least her version'll be something new.

She's quiet for a long time.

"That's not really healthy…"

I nod absently.  _Thanks Dr. Know-it-all; obviously I'm aware it's not healthy_.

"You may even be stunting your growth," she guesses.

I only shrug; I really don't care if I stop growing. I'm big enough. Plus, I'm guessing she's only saying it in the first place to have something to say. She does that.

"And what if—"

_Is she really still talking?_

The lunch bell rings and cuts her off.  _Thank you, God_. There's only so much soulful-girly-concern I can take. My stomach is too empty for that.

Tino is already waiting for me in the hall when I get there. Rayanne Graff is buzzing around him, talking something about getting takeout in between recounting some story from the night before. Tino's just chuckling; for reason's I'll never get Rayanne really amuses him.

I move past them. Tino will catch up. Rayanne's never been my favorite, and ever since that night at Louie's ( _what an uncalculated mistake that was_ ), I've tried my best to avoid her. Which, is somewhat difficult. Like I said, Tino's got a soft spot for her. The two of 'em go way back.

He said once she's like the female version of me, but with 'a helluva lot more bravado'. I guess I can sort of see it, if I force it. We share some of the same vices, though I don't think she smokes, and I've never known anyone to eat more than she does. It's no secret that she sleeps around, she's proud of it. And as I've slept with a number of people I couldn't 've cared less about, and 've been known, more than once, to charge for doing it when there was no other way to scrounge some cash together, I'm not exactly a saint either.

Really though, I think she's the female Tino. But even that's not right, 'cuz as loud and rowdy as Tino can get, he's never irritating about it, which she always is, and Tino's thing is always 'bout controlling chaos, whereas she just revels in it. Anyway, it's hard for me to be around her. Especially when I'm on edge like this, when the hunger's working against me rather than for me. There's not many I can though when I'm this far gone. My mind wanders to the backseat of Tino's car. It's not a nap that I'm thinking of now…

Behind me Rayanne's hanging off of Tino's arm, badgering him for food. I don't hafta turn round, I can picture her yapping about him like a terrier.  _Food_. So much for being another Catalano — we obviously have different priorities.

Tino needs only take two long strides to catch up with me. "Catalano," he greets me, tossing his arm around my shoulder in what to onlookers appears to be a friendly gesture.

Course what he's really doing is making sure I don't collapse in the middle of the hallway.  _He knows me too well._

"What say we take Graff—" he's cut off by Rayanne herself who's suddenly right beside us. For some reason she doesn't get that I'm avoiding her, or she just doesn't care.

"And Rickie too," she interjects.

I feel like a jerk for not noticing him before and nod a hello at him.  _I must be more out of it than I thought._  Then again, Rickie's like me in that way: happy to blend in when he can.

Tino continues; " _And_  Vasquez, and go for some Chinese?"

"But, don't you have tutoring?

Of course it was Angela, now appearing beside Rickie. I still don't think she's realized that we know each other. _She really does only see what she wants._

I glance at her for a brief second. I guess she means well but she's really getting on my nerves today. If it wasn't for her somber, overly earnest baby face, and maybe some traces of guilt for my leading her on, or whatever, I'd be tempted to tell her off. As it is, I play along. Reluctantly.

"Brian cancelled," I mutter. The rest I direct to Tino, "Can we get going already? I need a smoke."

That's code for:  _I'm going to faint, get me out of here please._

Tino nods. Because there's no real way around it, he tells Chase she's welcome to tag along, then steers me out the south exit to his car. He doesn't let go until he's delivered me right to the passenger door, even opening it for me. To make less of a thing of it he opens the doors for the others as well.

I'm ready to pass out right now but unfortunately there's an audience, and I don't want to make Tino worry more than he already is. Instead I light a cigarette and crack the window, knowing the nicotine 'll keep me going a little while longer. I take a long drag on my smoke and offer him a quick smile.

It's only a couple minute drive to the Szechwan place. Tino, periodically stealing drags off my cigarette, cracks jokes the entire trip. As a result, Rayanne and Rickie are near hysterics but Angela just looks bored and it's bugging Tino. He loves to entertain and the fact that she's not amused is killing him. Yeah, she probably just feels out of place, and I think she's still confused about our status after I went through all that effort with the letter and the apology only to relegate her to the back burner, but if that's the case, then she shouldn't have come. Part of it might be too that I don't think we five have ever all been in the same place at the same time in this way before, and I haven't got a clue as to how solid she and Graff are these days,  _after_. But again, she didn't have to come. Least she could do is crack an obligatory smile; as Tino considers her a beard he already fundamentally dislikes her. She's not helping her cause any.

Tino's grumbling under his breath when he gets out of the car. He's further aggravated when Angela and Rayanne — who apparently  _are_  on speaking terms again, I guess I missed that — follow him into the restaurant. That's on him though, he's the one who invited them in the first place.

Rickie's stayed behind. No doubt he sees no reason to leave a warm car in this kind of cold; smart guy.

"So..." he begins slowly, obviously feeling awkward. Though we've been connected through Tino for years, or, rather: Rayanne and thus Tino, we've never really moved past the occasional casual conversation. I've always gotten the impression I make him nervous. Maybe it's my reputation. Though that doesn't really narrow it down.

"Yeah?" I take a last drag off my cigarette before flicking it out across the pavement. My eyes haven't opened since I got in the car and I'm freezing. If I had the energy and wherewithal I'd roll the window up, but as things are I just sit there and take it. (The same could be said about a lot in my life.)

Rickie speaks again. "Are you and Tino, like…  _Together_?"

I'm a little surprised but I try not to let on too much.  _Does he_ know _? Or is he just observant?_

"Not really…" I answer thoughtfully. "We're just really tight." I crack open my good eye to steal a glimpse of him through Tino's rearview mirror. He looks a little disappointed, maybe scared, because he thinks he read us wrong. I shrug. "It's like a friends with— It's a," I realize I'd never had to put it into words before, "'There're no rules', sort of deal."

"Oh." He clears his throat. "Cool."

"Yeh."

Even with all this  _said_ and out there, he still seems a little guarded. Then Rickie sighs kind of sadly and settles back into his seat.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Just... I just," he bites his lips before he speaks the actual words, "wish I had, someone to be, that way, with. Ya know?" Rickie picks at the side door's cracked vinyl upholstery as in a lowered voice he utters, "Even if it's only a friend."

I nod 'cuz I understand; that's sorta what got me and Tino started back in eighth grade.

Coolly, I let slip: "I'm usually around."

His eyes go really wide. I don't need to sneak another peek, his surprise is palatable. "You're joking."

I'm not though.

Though it doesn't fill the treacherous gaping cavern in my gut, messing around's the best way I know to feel alive. It dulls everything else and only brings the best parts into focus. Boredom's not my thing. Neither's feeling alone. And whatever it is between me and Tino, we've already established it's anything but exclusive. So if Rickie Vasquez was to turn up in the boiler room one day, sure, things could happen.

"What about Angela?"

I shrug. I'm not getting into that. "Or I could set something up for you. If you want."

"You're not joking."

"Why would it be funny?"

Really I'm kind of surprised any of this is news to Rickie. He and Tino are pretty friendly. And aside from that, within a certain crew at school, one Angela Chase is clearly not part of, but one I's fairly certain he mixed with, our business 's pretty well known. Nevertheless, I think it's safe to say Rickie's mind is a little blown.

We're interrupted when Tino and the girls clamber back into the car. Wearing a huge grin, his arms full of Chinese takeout boxes, Tino thrusts one of the smaller cartons into my hand. There's only a half portion of fried rice and steamed veggies inside, all my stomach can handle. Aside from that it's my favorite anyway. Even back when I ate like a semi-normal person, I'd never been one for exotic pairings or complicated flavor palettes. You'd never see me eating orange chicken.

So far I'm just holding it, letting the heat from the container warm my hands and seep into my body. I like the winter because at least then there's a plausible excuse for why I'm always so frozen, but getting warm is always the goal. I breath in and inhale the rising steam. I don't know how to describe the aroma, but with eyes shut I get lost in its smell. I'll bet it tastes amazin—

"Please eat it," he says quietly. Tino's afraid I'm going to stop with smelling. He shoves a spoon in my hand.

I nod and start eating slowly. Tino  _would_  hand me spoon, he really is all about shoveling me full of food. Or he  _would be_  if I let him. I take another bite. I know I won't finish it all, but it might keep me conscious for the next few hours.

Behind me they are chattering amongst themselves, for the moment completely oblivious to Tino and me as they dig into multiple containers at once. Tino too's happily tearing into some sweet and sour pork and for the moment looks like he's in heaven. He pauses when he notices I've stopped eating. I did manage to finish over half of it though.

He's just staring and I have to look away.

"I can't eat anymore."

"Translation: You  _won't_  eat anymore." He sighs loudly and holds out a piece of pork to me. "At least have a bite of meat, you could use the protein."

I accept it and it feels like it takes a month to chew. The only meat I really like is turkey, so the only time I ever have anything else is when Tino talks me into it.

"I really wish I could get you to eat normally," he mutters as we head back to school in his car.

I check, the crew in the back aren't listening at all — Rickie seems momentarily recovered, and even Chase seems focussed on something other than me; "I know; I'm sorry."

When he doesn't respond I light up another cigarette.

Already we're back on campus; Tino pulls into a spot partially sheltered by some low hanging branches and cuts the engine. "How's your wrist?" he asks it casually, not making a thing of it.

"It's fucking throbbing; are you sure it's not broken?"

He shrugs as he climbs out of the car, "I'm not a doctor; but I don't think it is. You can still move your fingers, right?" I demonstrate by raising my middle finger to him. He gets a kick outta that.

By then the others are long gone and that means I can take my time getting out. Purply-gray spots dart and swerve through my vision as I stand. I'm fairly certain I'll pass out sometime in the near future.

" _Jordan_." Tino's hand is on my shoulder and he's urging me back toward the car. "Sit down, man."

I'm not about to argue with a guy as big as Tino — especially when he sounds so serious — but I don't understand what he's on about.

"You went really pale all of a sudden, and—" he takes my good hand and holds it up as evidence, "you're shaking. … God, anyone else would think you're a heroin addict."

I flinch because I know it's the truth. People  _have_  stopped me in the street looking to score.

"Christ, Catalano!" He's slammed his fist against his car, but I know to ignore it. When Tino's mad you know it, this is just him being concerned. "When you're hungry you should eat!"

I nod because as close as we are he could never understand the high I get from starving myself. I gave up trying.

"You keep nodding like you understand what I mean but you don't  _do_  anything about it!"

He's shouting and I can't help but wince. My head is pounding and I can feel another migraine starting in.

"Why can't you see that you're  _killing yourself?_!" He's basically shouting at this point.  _It's a good thing,_  I reflect,  _we're parked so far from main campus._  With one fist tugging at his hair in frustration, Tino pivots and paces a few steps in the opposite direction. "What the hell am I going to do with you?"

I start crying. It's not voluntary and I'm not loud about it or anything, but the fact remains that saltwater  _is_  leaking out of my eyes. I can't help it though. The whole thing with my dad last night, the starvation thing, my migraine, Tino yelling… It's all too much and I can't stop the tears.

But Tino stops. "Jordan…?"

I turn away.

He sighs and easily moves me into the back seat. He wraps his car blanket around my shoulders and pulls me close, gently rubbing my back as my body quakes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't want to make you cry… This thing is just so,  _frustrating_."

"I know it is." I'm one of those rare people who can talk and cry without coming across as a total mess. It's not exactly something to brag about, but I've never begrudged myself the trait. It can come in useful.

Without meaning to I fall asleep in his arms.

I've been doing that a lot lately.


	3. Chapter 3: Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still Holzman's, Herskovitz's, Zwick's and Ace Hart Hunter's. Hope I'm doing the original(s) justice.

What I thought must've been at least an hour turned out to be only fifteen minutes at the most. Tino stayed of course. When I woke he was there. Sitting there reading one of the books he's always got around.

After some discussion I figured going to class wouldn't make me feel any worse than I already did, so we went.

It was shop anyway.  _Cake._

Only, not exactly. Halfway through, after nearly falling asleep at the drill press, I make a run for coffee. Decaf. I run into Rickie by the machines.  _Seems like nobody just goes to class and stays._

I look him over as I blow over the rim of my cup; the rising steam blends with the warm breath escaping my parted lips. I hint at a smile; "Hey." The acidity of the cheap coffee is terrible. The smell alone is making my stomach curdle, but at this point it's a trade off, I need the pick-me-up.

"Hi." I sip. He continues, "So, let me ask you…"

"Shoot." It's evident he's been thinking something over since our talk in the restaurant parking lot. As he searches for his words I watch the oil droplets float and swirl atop the poisonous brown liquid I'm attempting to drink.

"Uh," he begins, "Angela…"

"Chase."

"Yeah."

"What about 'er?"

"I don't get it." I get what he's doing. He's trying to figure me out, both for himself, and for his friend. I guess I'd kinda forgotten how tight they were.  _Hadn't he been living with her for a while..?_  "Why were you with her?"

' _Why'?_  'Cuz for a while, when I was trying to convince myself that I wasn't really in love with Tino, Angela was important to me. She… filled a need. And it didn't take a lot of effort to make it happen.

Like a lot of people, she just lets me lean back while she does all the talking. I suspect she could have a whole relationship with me and never realize I was never really there. And that makes it easy, if a bit noisy. And, she  _is_  genuine; I even thought it might be something real, for a bit. I guess I even tried to make her mom into Tino's mom — since I was trying to stay away — but none of it worked. None of it lasted. So I'm back where I was. It feels right, even if it isn't.

It was, after all, a particularly  _adventurous_  night after that school dance happiness thing that made me even pursue her at all.

I walked away that night, a little rattled, I guess, by how, carried away I'd allowed myself to get with those guys… And Angela Chase and a couple of PG make out sessions became my way of reigning myself back in. It was easy to get her to come to the boiler room. Girls like her, you don't have to be especially nice or attentive. Which I guess isn't fair, because that's exactly what they're like. But I didn't make the rules. And anyway, she seems to be okay with playing by them — the rules.

But I'm not telling him any of that. Not when all this 's just coming out today, and especially not because he's friends with the girl in question. Instead I edge around it.

"You mean, because of Tino?" Though it's disgusting I take another sip. Rickie blinks his response. "I'm not gay," I state plainly.

I'm not. Girls don't repulse me. Being with them can be fun. And easy. It's all easy actually. But being with girls — it makes me feel strong. Well, strong-ish.

" _No_ ," Rickie's quick to say. "Of course not. I didn't mean to imply—" It's funny how scared this kid is all the time. Or, it would be, if I didn't know what that felt like. "Sorry," he says, and he turns to walk away. "I'll, see you la—"

And God does he give up quickly. "That doesn't mean that I don't…" But he's too embarrassed to listen and moves to head back to class. With my good hand I reach out and take hold of his belt before he can actually get away. Pulling him slowly closer, I let my eyes do what they do when I look at a person and think about touching my mouth to theirs. My voice deepens and my jaw juts roguishly to the side as I look him over, that sweet face, those wide, brown, deeply open eyes, and especially those plump, untouched lips. Suddenly I really want this. "Come here." I tug him closer, "I'll show you what I mean." Rickie's stunned. He blushes.  _How cute is that?_ Panicked as he is he allows himself to be pulled closer.

It was then I guess that I fainted. This time I didn't sense it coming. I'm guessing that's because I was focused on Vasquez. Anyway, we never got to see where that,  _conversation_ , was taking us.

* * *

My eyes flutter open and closed a few times before I'm actually able to focus on anything. It doesn't take three guesses to figure out where I am. I've been here more than enough to recognize the ceiling to the school nurse's office when I see it.

Standing over me Rickie looks pale and shaken and he's staring at me with those huge, worried eyes of his. I can't blame him really since I did pass out in his arms a little while ago.

We're alone in the nurse's office, surrounded by cotton swaps and clinic cots and anti-everything pamphlets. If I was feeling a little more up for it I would've scanned the room for the free condom supply I know she' keeps around here somewhere. But I'm not up to it.

My eyes settle instead on the same tobacco education poster I've studied every time I've ended up here. Same chard lungs. Same threatening tagline. It's never once gotten me to consider quitting. But then, I figure I'm not their target audience, what with the self-inflicted starvation, and the going home to the sociopath, and the constant turn over in my bed — I'm not exactly a model for healthy living in any aspect of my life. But I don't feel too badly about it; the nurse herself right now is behind the administration's utility closet sneaking in her ritual afternoon puffs.

Everyone to his own destruction.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. We don't need her here.

"What happened?" Rickie asks anxiously.  _Is he even wringing his hands?_

I sigh and stare at the ceiling, not sure what to tell him.

"Did you," he's hating asking this but he's gonna see it through, "overdose, or something?"

"I don't do drugs."

He looks surprised. And I doubt that's 'cuz 'a who I run with. I really must look like hell.

"Well," I qualify as I drink from the mini paper cup he's handed me, "nothing you can overdose on. I just," I rub my eyes, "haven't eaten enough." I try to make it sound as though it's not a big deal, but, obviously it is.

He nods thoughtfully.

"My, uh, aunt, was like that…" He hesitates to give it a name, "Um, anorexic?"

 _There it is._  I shake my head. It was never about body image, or weight loss as such. Though I don't mind it, the getting smaller. I don't like feeling weak, but the drop in size, the way my frame just melted down, I kinda love that part. Being small, thin like I am, it doesn't matter with the girls, 'cause I'm tall, and 'cause I'm still me:  _Jordan Catalano_ — I know what I'm doin'. And with the guys, it just makes me more appealing. To the bigger ones especially. They get off on how frail I am or something. And I do too.

But there's another part to being small, other than the sex thing. I can't quite put it into words, but it's wrapped up in living in my dad's house, and the way I feel about Tino, and all the shit that's in my head — when my mind's running clear enough to let that stuff in. Being small, being hungry, it's an escape. And it's a different thing to be rescued from.

And it's on my terms.

And aside from that it's a fucking rush. In the times when it doesn't seem like it's going to kill me.

It seems like Rickie feels obligated to keep the conversation going. Like I told him this big thing and now he owes me a freaking dialogue about it. Maybe it'd be different if I wasn't the first guy to tug on his belt buckle.  _Least I think I was._  Angela Chase did the same thing with the reading thing. Some people just don't get it's okay to let things lie. Especially if you're trying to get laid. Nothing kills a mood like words. But still he keeps going: "Is it like,  _circumstances_ , or do you do it on purpose?" he asks awkwardly.  _What sort of 'circumstances' would that be exactly? This is Pittsburgh, not Ethiopia; I can get food._

I humor him: "Progression from one to the other I guess…"

(Actually, if I try to pin down the timeline, seems like the weight loss started with that first drop early last spring when I had that severe pneumonia. After that...? I don't know. Guess I was hooked, 'cuz I just kept going...) He's still absently wringing his hands.

It's distracting and I close my hand around his, our fingers tangling together. He's a little bit sweaty but his hands are warm. I'm frozen.

I close my eyes for a moment and Rickie seems to have been stunned into silence. I don't think anyone's ever held his hand before. Not this blatantly, or ambiguously anyway. But ambiguity's where I live. Look at it from this angle, it looks this way; move a few steps over, and it suddenly seems so different. Guess that's why girls like Angela and Jody Barsch never even considered I was anything other than what they wanted me to be. And yeah, I can play that part well. It's just not the only role I have.

"But…" It's cute how he's still struggling with it. "But like," Rickie starts again, "what keeps you doing it?"

I sigh and prop myself up on the pillows so I can see him better, but with only one working wrist I need to withdraw my hand from his to do so. I get a little thrill when I see he's sorry to let me go.

"Jordan?" Rickie prompts; he looks genuinely curious.

"It feels good."

I thought he'd be disgusted, that's the standard reaction, but apparently it's my turn to be surprised. He just nods thoughtfully again and doesn't question me about it; he just takes the empty water cup from me. I can almost see him trying to puzzle out how starvation can possibly feel good. It's 100% clear he's been here before — nursing a friend without the instinct for self-preservation, not in any rational form anyway.  _Okay, so maybe there is something to Tino's comparing me to Rayanne Graff._

 _Knowing what's killing you, and yet refusing to stop: Is that the definition of being crazy?_ Am I crazy?

My eyes slip shut again on their own volition and I can feel myself starting to fall asleep. A slight pressure on my stomach brings me back to consciousness and seconds later Rickie's lips are on mine. He's kissing me very tenderly and I'm suddenly melting. He's a little bit clumsy about it, and the pressure on my stomach is steadily becoming painful, but it feels so nice, and what's more, i never saw it coming; I'm disappointed when he pulls away.

"Wow…" Clearly he's even surprised himself. "That was just… Woah."

He looks sort of dazed and a little bit confused, but happy. Sweetly, innocently, ego-boostingly happy.

I grin at him. "It was nice."

"Yeah."


	4. Chapter 4: Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Not mine. * This is the last chapter containing any of Ace Hart Hunter's original writing. * Though the writing will continue (at least for two more chapters) the story itself will still not be mine. * Happy reading!

"You lied to me."

I can only lower my head as a grimacing Tino steers me with determination through the hallways. Students and teachers watch curiously as we pass. While it isn't publicly known, it's not exactly a big secret how either of us is. So certain people in our circle know, and whoever they choose to tell know, and so forth. But Angela Chase, and Rickie Vasquez for that matter, didn't know. I've never even been entirely sure if Rayanne knows. Which is strange, considering how tight she and Tino are. But then he likes to keep an element of mystery about himself.

Being clear, there's a world of difference between secrecy and mystery.

The distinction of ambiguity is big with us. I don't exactly know why. I guess Tino thinks it's good to have options, to say 'yes' to experience; I really just let whatever happens happen.

'Bi' isn't really a label we subscribe to, though it's clearly the most fitting. We're not really big on labels at all. We know who we are. Leastways we're comfortable with letting it linger unspoken in the layered shades of adolesence.

Anyway, despite the fact that the backseats of both our cars are fairly high trafficked — both by guys and girls — extended public displays of anything more than jovial camaraderie are usually pretty rare. And now Tino's essentially carrying me down the hallway as he drags me under his arm.

"You lied directly to my face." His words are measured though his meaning is sharp.

I can feel the anger radiating out from him and I want to pull away. I know I'm not strong enough though, and that the attempt will only make him angrier. And so I continue with him, down the hall and out the nearest exit, circling back to the student lot.

The pathetic thing is that even though Tino is my best friend, when he gets like this, like he's boiling over just beneath the surface, he kind of terrifies me. Sure, I know that he would never actually hurt me, not really, but knowing that doesn't stop my desire for distance when he's like this. If I chose to think about it I know it'd have something to do with my father. When he's drunk, he goes into rages just like Tino. He gets violent. It's an ingrained reaction for me at this point to be frightened when anybody I'm close with 's this mad.

That said, currently I'm practically clinging to Tino as we walk because my head is still swimming and I can barely hold myself up; forget walk in a straight line.

"There is no way in hell that you ate anything at all yesterday," he hisses, hauling me towards his car.

I think I kind of moan.

"And you threw up that measly little bit of rice too, didn't you?"

I don't have to answer because he already knows that I did. It wasn't really on purpose, but I didn't make any effort to keep it down either.

"You are messed in the head Catalano."

He almost throws me into the car when he says it and I don't think I've ever felt quite this weak before. There's this, like, numbness, and I feel completely disconnected from my body. Sinking into it it's relaxing really.

Tino slams the car doors shut and revs the engine. He's taking me to his place — the loft's no good 'cuz there's no real food there — which is just as well because this whole day has been one slowly drawn out disaster. Minus that beginner's stuff with Vasquez.

Tino runs a red. He never really thinks rules apply to him, and much less so when he's worked up and pissed about something. "When's the actual last time you ate?"

"Thursday." I mutter sleepily. The window's frozen glass against my forehead is the only thing keeping me awake.

I can feel him take a sideways glance in my direction. "Are you sure it was actually Thursday?" I nod. This question may sound odd, but I do have an unusually difficult time keeping track of the days. " _Christ Catalano_. You haven't eaten in a week! No wonder you've been passing out all over the place."

I nod very slightly. Or I meant to. I can't be sure it registered. At this point, my body's pretty much on autopilot, and any reserve energy's not being squandered on meaningless gestures.

"You're _insane_ ," he accuses. He's shaking his head in disbelief, "That cannot possibly make you feel good."

"It does." Even my voice sounds disconnected and weak.

" _How_?" He's starting to calm down, but that was a challenge all the same.

At this point we're talking in circles. He can't expect to hear anything new. I mean to shake my head but I think it comes out as a deep breath.  _There is no way I can ever explain how it feels to someone who's never starved._

He's quiet now and I can tell the rage has passed. Through drooping lids I watch him. He drums thoughtfully on the steering wheel as he looks ahead frowning, still working something out for himself. It's during moments like this that he really is gorgeous and I can't keep myself from wanting him. He's got this amazing, dirty blonde hair that he keeps threatening to shave off. (Which'd kill me since I know from experience how soft it is.) And he's got this goofy, but really great face; strong jaw, darting, wicked eyes, a once broken nose, and a slow spreading smile that just wins you over. Though at the moment he's still biting his lower lip, a thing he does when he's thinking something over. I know what he's doing; he's thinking about how messed up I am. I hate when he does that 'cuz there's always the remote chance he'll come away thinking it's no longer worth it, that I'm too messed up. I block it out and think instead about that face. He didn't shave this morning, and I fucking love that on him.

To me — well, to everybody really — Tino is perfection.

Technically, objectively, I guess I'm better looking. Or, pump me full of food and get me a full night's sleep and I would be. Tino's eyes, while blue, aren't deep and large like mine. He can't do anything with his eyelashes. He grins just enough to never really successfully pull off sultry moodiness. There's nothing particularly remarkable about his mouth, except that I want it on mine. But all that misses the point. He's magnetic. He's the center of everything. When you're around him you can feel the centripetal force pulling you in. He's Tino. And more than anyone else's — though that's not saying much — he's mine.

I look at him; he knows what he's doing.

Tino says he wants to be an actor or a singer, and I know he can do it. More than the fact that he's got the skills, he's got the looks; any label 'd be crazy not to sign him.

"I know I'm a sex god Catalano, but there's really no need to stare."

 _Damn._  He's caught me looking. I lower my gaze.

"I 's just teasing J, you stare if you want," he grins. "Gives me an ego boost."

"You don't need one," I tell him, not even bothering to reopen my eyes.

Clearly he's over whatever he'd been thinking about.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "but it's good ta know even a sexy thing like you finds me attractive." He reaches over and shoves my head just a little, gently tousling my hair. That's something I notice he does, find reasons to touch my hair. To touch me. Guess I don't know that he finds them so much as takes them. And while a hug, or a face brush, or his hand on my chest, or even a kiss or two are pretty commonplace occurrences (no more charged than hand holding or a handshake), his touch, when I've been sitting there thinking on it, waiting for it, building anticipation around it, can literally electrify me. I feel it everywhere. And just now 's the first sensation all day to even temporarily surpass the throb in my wrist.

That isn't good.

This stuff with Tino, it's supposed to feel good, incredible even; it's not supposed to eclipse everything else. That's not what we're about.

I chalk it up to the day. Everything's been a little off.

So I don't respond. I just stare at my hands and mess with my wrist brace. And ignore the compliment. My forearm is still aching and once again I find myself wishing that I were brave enough, strong enough, to fight back.

I pretty much go paralyzed when he hits me. I just take it. I don't know if it's just fear, or lingering respect, or — God forbid — love, but I've never really raised my hand to my father (outside of the chair incident;  _clearly that did a whole lot of good_ ).

_So why would a guy who doesn't fight back think of getting smaller 's a good thing?_

' _Cuz there's something wrong with my head._

 _Less of a target?_  I don't know. I know it pisses him off I'm slight.  _Is that it? Am I fucking killing myself just to fuck with him?_ If that's what it is I really am messed up.

The natural reaction would be to bulk up. The natural reaction would be to fight back, or at least get out, don't come back. But I'm not doing any of that. What do I do? I stop eating, I pass out all over town, I fool around with people who don't give a shit about me, who can't give a shit about me because they don't know anything real about me; I let my best friend let me lie to him about everything that matters, and then I keep coming back for more.

_Did my old man make me like this, or is this the way I really am?_

Here's one thing I  _do_  know: my frail, meatless, gaunt body 's what my old man sees every time he thinks 'bout what he walked in on last spring. And if my gaining weight 'd play the slightest roll in covering up that I was getting head from a guy, then forget it. And screw him. Course, that revelation wasn't the source of the beatings; he'd been hitting me since I was what, five? Seven years old? My old man needed no kind of phobia to fuel his rages. But yeah, something  _had_ changed since that night.  _And still I fucking don't fight back..._

_Forget the food, that's what's killing me._

I've never actually raised my hand against anyone; not even when that thing happened back in seventh grade. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've never fought anyone. I've never even really thrown a punch. At this point, I don't think I could if I needed to.

I was always big for my age — tall, and lean; kids just always assumed I'd kick their asses if they messed with me, so I never had any need to learn. I guess all the bruises and shit served to fortify the image of me as a fighter.  _If only they knew._ The irony is killer: I'm the most feared punching bag around. I wish I  _had_  learned. Now all I have is the lanky frame, there's no weight behind it. I'm a waif with broad shoulders; the lean muscles are gone. I'm hollow.

I allow myself a shaky sigh and as best I can, curl in on myself, wrapping my arms tightly round my torso.

"So, what's this I hear about you and Vasquez?" He grins as he pulls into the parking lot of his building.

"What?"  _I guess I would've told him, but how'd he hear about it already?_

"Rayanne Graff said you two were like all over each other this afternoon. Is that right?" He opens my door, still grinning. Still annoying.

"Yeah? How would she know?"

"So, it's true," he lords.  _He can get so damn pompous._  He nudges me. "What happened?"

I smile a little as he helps me up the stairs. ( _Maybe_ that's _why I've never moved in, these stupid endless stairs._ )

" _Jordan_ ," he entreats, kicking open the stairwell's fire door for effect, "tell me what happened."

I like to know that Tino gets jealous. Though this right now 's really curiosity with a tinge of jealousy; but all the same he  _can_  get jealous. I know he desires me. I can sense it from him like I can sense it from everyone else. Tino can be possessive as hell when he's not paying enough attention to remember he doesn't believe in that kind of thing.

Anyway he's not letting this go till I answer him.

"He kissed me."

"Yeah?" he beams. "Good for him." Tino's clearly filling with a sense of pride right about now, but the reason he sees fit to take credit for this would only make sense in his own head. "So," the grin widens, "was it any good?"

"Uhhh," I consider this for a drawn-out moment, just to bug him.

We've paused at the landing and he's waiting for my answer.

"Yeah. He's pretty good."

Tino presses his forehead against mine so that our lips are almost touching. He runs his hand up my side to cup my cheek.

"So," he breathes, tracing his thumb over my lower lip, "does this mean I don't get to play with you anymore?"

He's teasing me. He knows it and I know it. The tension builds. He's a breath away from my lips, I can feel his gaze pulling me to him. Unconsciously he wets his lips. I could hold out, but I don't. I find his lips with mine and I can feel him smiling into the kiss. My tongue meets his, lightly, softly. He melts into me. This is my moment to just forget for a while. I need a moment away from myself.

I'm grasping him by the neck; he's worked his fingers into my hair, clutching it back. Tino snakes his tongue into my mouth, it feels so nice I let my problems just slip away. I don't have an eating disorder. My dad's a nice guy. It doesn't matter that I'm falling in love with Tino, and I don't need to be confused 'cuz the thing with Rickie, and that other thing with Angela, they're not real. For this one moment everything's cool. I'm cool.

With a metallic crush the heavy fire door to the third floor hallway bangs open and there in its wake stands a very stunned man staring right at us.

It's clear he'd expected to see nothing on the other side of the door, much less what he did, and apparently he's too taken aback to react, but Tino, of course, doesn't skip a beat. "Hey, Mr. Shelley." Tino's nonchalance is epic as he gently leads me out the stairwell, right past this Shelley guy, and into the hallway. "How's your arthritis doing? With this weather the pain must be brutal." Tino lets the door slam behind us and as we walk, I'm pretty sure it's a choking sound we hear on the other side. Tino chuckles, he gets a real kick out of shit like that. "That was great!"

I can't muster the energy for laughter though and Tino's dies out quickly when he sees how weak I am.

"Jordan?"

I'm so close to fainting again —  _nothing ever lasts._ I can actually see the edges of my vision going gray. The too familiar sound of blood rushing through my ears floods my senses.  _Dizzy_  doesn't begin to describe it.

Tino's herding me as fast as he can to his place now and all I can see is the blurry outline of doors racing past me. The next thing I'm aware of is entering his apartment and his mother rushing at me.

"Oh Jordan, Sweetheart!" she exclaims, ushering me towards the couch. "You look terrible; what happened?"

"He's starving," Tino calls from the kitchen.

"Well, bring him something to eat then!" If I were a little more myself it'd be obliging how frantic she is on my behalf at this moment, but I'm not and so it goes unnoticed.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he fires back.

This isn't a fight. This is a family in action in a time of crisis. Trust me, even in this state I can tell the difference.

She ignores him. The light touch of the back of her hand on my forehead feels good. Centering almost. "Are you alright, Baby? Do you think you can eat a little something?"

I don't even shrug.

"Good."

I'm not sure what she's taken as confirmation, but I like her confidence, it gives me the boost I need to maybe hold something down.

Tino's there, handing me a plate of sliced turkey and canned carrots. (Whatever I'm doing to my stomach, it's too sensitive to take the raw stuff anymore.)

Obediently I start eating. It's awkward though with both Tino and his mom just watching me. I only manage two slices of turkey and five carrot slices before I feel full.

"Have a little more, Honey," she urges. "You need to build up your strength." Her cool hand 's on my face again; her palm cups my cheek, and once more with the back of her hand she tests my forehead. It's indescribably soothing, and I fall away from myself. "You sure?"

I shake my head. My body can't handle any more.

"He's had enough," Tino intercedes, and takes the plate from me to hand off to his mother.

The urgency of the moment for now abated, Tino moves in beside me and pulls me close, kissing the top of my head as he does. This elicits a slight smile from our audience as she sits there, feet propped up, picking at what's left of the turkey. She's watching us together; he's pretty much ignoring her. I slowly drink gulp after gulp from the glass of water he brought over, as Tino gently rubs my back and kisses my head once more.

Feeling as safe as I do in this moment, it's hard to believe there're ever times I fear him. Tino fancies himself a badass, and will kill boredom with a fight and restlessness with a brawl, but I don't think he's ever seriously hurt anyone who didn't directly threaten him or someone he cares about. There's a code to how he lives, even if he's the only one that knows it.

His mom's still passively watching us. Bare feet up, settled back in her armchair, she looks like she wants to ask something.

And she does: "Can I ask you boys a question?"

"Sure," Tino replies lazily. "Ask away."

"What are you two?" she asks carefully. "To each other I mean."

Tino laughs.

" _Seriously_ ," she exclaims, laughing a little as well. "You two are all over each other right now but it's not like you two are exclusive at all. I see the both of you with other boys —  _and girls —_ all the time; and yet you always end up back here, together. Not that I'm complaining at all, I think you two are a perfect match for one another. But I want to know how this odd little relationship works." She chuckles slightly as she looks at us, shaking her head in bemusement, "Not getting it is driving me a little nuts"

"You're already nuts," he rags.

" _Valentino_ …" she mock warns in exchange.

To which he exhales loudly and hugs me tighter. "He's my sex slave."

"Tino."

"What do you want me to say? … We're just friends, Mother." She's watching me while he says it and I don't know how, but I know that she knows I love him, it's in her smile. "What's it to you anyway?"

Though the conversation had been nothing but light, she backs off. "Nothing." Casually she rises and as she gracefully collects the dishes remarks, "I just wish I'd had friends like that when I was growing up is all; might'a been more fun." With a final matronly smile she exits the room and leaves us alone at last.

Once we're alone there's a long moment of quiet between us. He just keeps rubbing my back and kissing my head, my ears, the dip in my collarbone. I'm more relaxed than I've ever been with anyone else before.

"Jordan…" he whispers into my ear. "Please stop this not-eating thing." He's not playing fair, asking this of me in that husky voice of his. "I know you say it feels good, but— Dammit J, there are  _other_  ways to feel good."

I sigh wearily.  _Why did he have to bring this up now?_  He's only going to end up frustrated. I turn my mouth towards his; slowly wetting my lips I purposefully brush them against his, "Do we have to talk about this now?" I can fight dirty too. But he resists the kiss.

"I'm afraid I'm going to lose you…" This surprises me and it shows on my face. "You don't get it, do you?" he murmurs, stroking my cheek. "You're dying; you're killing yourself."

He's said this to me before, plenty of times. But usually he's shouting it at me, or at least lecturing. This is different. This time he  _sounds_  as vulnerable as I  _look._  I don't know how to respond to this at all.

"You know that, right?" His tenor isn't harsh or domineering, he's being gentle, and soft spoken. Basically he's pleading. And something about it's breaking my heart.

I nod for him, ever so slightly. I know it's true, I  _am_  killing myself. I say it to myself all the time. I just didn't realize he really thought of it that way. Not  _actually_.

"I don't want to lose you, Love."

He presses his mouth to mine and I meet his tongue with dulcet pleasure.  _Jesus, I really need his bedroom to be a whole lot closer than it is._  He's holding me so carefully, and after an extended moment of hazy tenderness I realize he's afraid to hurt me. And that slams me back into reality with a fiercely unpleasant jolt.  _I don't want it to be like_ this _._

I want him to  _handle_  me, not to 'handle' me. He can be stronger but I can't be useless. I can be the David to his Goliath; I cannot be the china shop to his bull. (So much for the 'Take Advantage Of' sign, my problem's the apparent 'Handle with Care'.) With something to prove I shift and pin him against the sofa. Having usurped the upper hand l grin at him and take hold of his face, restraining him with my forearms and knee. So secured, I look him in the eye and kiss him, hard, and with fervor. My grip on him is fierce, though he's putting up no struggle against it. Once I've commanded his attention and his cajoling, teasing gaze works to erupt something inside of me, I shift my rhythm, kissing him slowly now, and fully. This, contrary to popular belief, is the way I prefer it. Hard and fast has its place of course, but I like to enjoy this sort of thing and it usually goes by so quickly I just end up lost in a cyclone of confused sensations.

Eventually my grip slackens and Tino pulls away from my lips, lowering his focus... Lightly he begins kissing and biting at my throat. Somewhere in the place a phone rings. The interruption barely registers. Gasping, I moan slightly when his teeth graze against my jugular.

" _Vampire_!" I breathe at him as he grazes the spot again.

He chuckles and nibbles at the hollow of my neck as I reach through his flannel and under his tee to find him—

" _TINO!_ " It's his mother, but we're not ready to be interrupted. Nowhere close.

"I'm busy!"

" _It's important_." Standing over us she shoves the phone between us.

" _What_ is?" The irritation in his voice is blunt; he doesn't want to take this phone call, whatever it is.

I pull back a little and hope he and his mom don't get into a shouting match. She's always been really cool with all of us and it makes me, I dunno, sad, I guess, when they start to get into it.

She thrusts the phone further in his face.

"It's  _Rider_ ," she says earnestly. "I can't understand a word he's saying."

Suddenly animated, Tino snatches the phone and has it against his ear in an instant. Rising and pacing, he speaks rapidly into the telephone, his tone dark and intense. After a minute more Tino tosses me the phone and goes about grabbing our coats and shoes. His mom too rushes into motion.

"I'll make you boys something to eat."

Not that I'm ever that great in a crisis, but even I knew that 's a weird response. Thing about Tino's mother is, she'll mother you to hell, feed you, give you a hair cut, lecture you (if she thinks you need it), but she's not really one to get overly involved. Like, she'd take me in in a second, I think, but I doubt she'd ever call the cops on my old man. Can't explain why. So when she says she'll get food, I guess that's her contribution; Tino an' I'll have to do the rest.

With some hesitancy I lift the phone to my ear, "Rider…?"

"— _Jordan_." He's crying and it sounds like he can barely breathe. "— _I need to get out of here._ " There's a bit of a choke; he can't be breathing right. " _Please_ —" he manages to get out.

"Yeah. 'Course. Where are you?"

"— _In the bathroom_ ," he coughs wetly. "— _I can't— … I'm sorry; I didn't know who else to call_."

"Always call us," I direct. I realize I used the 'us' a little too easily. But there's no time for that, and no one but me would notice it. "You gonna be able to get to the door?"

For a long moment he doesn't reply, and I can hear him breathing, muffled and stunted.

"Rider?" In the background I hear a crash of some sort. Or pounding.

"Fuck!"

"Rider?..." No response. "Hey!"

"… Jordan?" he breathes.

"Yeah; I'm here."

 _"Jesus, I'm scared_ …"

"I don't blame you." I wince; probably shouldn't have said that. Doesn't help him any. But truth is, his father's a scary individual; he's right to be frightened of the man. And like these things go, this isn't the first time Rider's called in a scare like this; Tino's driven over there at least twice this year already, though I don't know 'f he's ever been in this big a panic. "We'll come in and get you."

"— _I'm really sorry. Tha_ —"

"We'll be there in ten." I don't let him say 'thanks'. I speak firmly and steadily, "You have to stay calm." I don't know where this collectedness is coming from;  _why can I keep it together only when it's not me who's the f'in' target_? "Can you talk to Tino's mom 'till we get there?"

"— _Y-yeah_ …"

Before I pass off the call I raise the phone once more to my ear. "Listen, that door gonna hold?"

The pause indicates he hadn't considered that.

"— _Y-yeah_ , yeah; I think so."

"Kay. Ten minutes; hold tight."

I toss the phone over and tug on my boots and jacket, praying that the turkey and carrots will tide me over long enough so that I'll be of some help to Rider.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story's still Ace's (much respect) but from here on out the words are all mine.

When we get there Rider is still barracaded in the bathroom; probably still on the line with Tino's mom. As it turns out, it doesn't take that much to get past Rider's father and back to where he is. His old man, like mine, is pretty much a coward when confronted head on. ( _What the hell in me is it that keeps me from ever doing that?_ ) Sure, there was some shouting, and Tino may have tensed up to throw a punch after initially storming through the guy to get down the hall; threats were flying around and we broke a part of the place's front room door, but it wasn't anything like it could have been.

Rider is bleeding from the head — his face is kind of pulpy, and I'm pretty sure his arm's been dislocated again. Everything is still a little blurry for me, but I'm really only here to represent another body between Rider and his dad — small as that body may be.

Once in the car Rider breaks down. He's sitting up front with us, and Tino reaches behind to clutch Rider's shoulder. Things are quiet.

Billy Corgon's whining about something. He's okay though. If you're not in the mood to listen to something hard. And just now things are intense enough as it is.

I slouch against the car's window; the cool hard pressure on my forehead becomes my main focus. Everything depends on the pressure between my head and that icy glass. Still, I refocus enough to ask, "What now?'

No immediate answer is made. Tino's focused on the road and Rider's withdrawn into some kind of daze. (I can relate.) I watch him focusing in on his knuckles. I know what that's about. That's him thinking his hands should be shredded. That's him beatin' himself up for not fighting back. So that makes two times he's been jumped on tonight. Course it's not his fault: If you can't stop it you can't stop it. Better just to take it and wait it out. But that doesn't stop the thoughts that come flooding in after. And that's what can hurt the most — the feeling that you let it happen.

 _But what are you supposed to do?_ When he's bigger than you, angrier than you, crazier than you, and you haven't eaten in six days? I guess that last one doesn't fit Rider... It's kind of gotten to the point where he doesn't know what to do with me if he's not wailing on me — the old man.

Since he found out what he found out, he doesn't seem to think it's enough just to ignore me anymore. I know one day he'll throw me out. It's coming; I can feel it.  _So why, in the meantime, do I keep going back? Why am I the dumb dog that gets kicked and comes back for more?_

I don't know.

I could point to something like the way I was raised or some B.S. 'bout not wanting to put Tino and his mother out, but those wouldn't be the real reasons. Asking why I go back 's the same as asking why I don't eat. Or why I can't make myself like a nice, normal girl like what's 'er name Angela Chase. I don't know  _why._  I don't know if there  _is_ a 'why'. It's just the way things are.

My stomach growls. Actually, it was more like a roar.

In reaction Tino guns the gas pedal. I can tell he didn't mean to; he just couldn't help it. In time he slows down again and we settle back into place after having been lurched forward by the sudden acceleration. There's really no way to say how much he hates what I'm doing to myself; it takes all he's got I bet, to let me do this thing. Yeah, he gives me hell for it, but not even a quarter of the amount that he could. I know it pains him to watch it happen, but he lets it go, mostly, and that's because I ask him to. Besides that it's  _me_  it's a real conflict of interest for him anyway. Tino's instinct is to live and let live, but he's also the guy that'll stick himself into any situation, no matter how intrusive, if it means having someone's back. Tino drives people places, he talks them through break ups, he brings people food, he took a semester algebra assessment for someone once. And for me, mostly, he lays off the guilt (despite the toll it takes on his vision of himself). I love him for it, though probably I shouldn't. ( _What's the word...? 'Enabler'? Unwilling as it is._ )

Rider's come to a bit and 's more aware of his surroundings; I feel him straighten up beside me. He's getting edgy. I can recognize those signs as well. He's gonna need a release. You can't take all that shit from a person like he just did and then keep it bottled up inside, that shit's like poison; it'll kill you. Or make you crazy. Rider needs to destroy something or fuck someone. Rider needs to explode. Tino should let 'im drive.

It's decided that we'll go out. There's a party at Fitz's and so we make a quick stop then head to his place.

A house party isn't the most exciting of things, but it'll get you wasted if that's what you're looking for, and it'll help you to score. A hook-up's almost guaranteed. It can be mind numbing, but that can be good, and if just this, it beats driving around this quiet town.

Crossing over the threshold I pop open one of the beers we brought, and never look back.  _If I never see today again that's okay with me._

If I was a girl, some kind of anorexic wanna-be-model, I probably wouldn't drink the way I do. Too many calories. But that's not what I, or this, is about. And without any food in my system I'll pay the price later anyway. Maybe I should stick to something clear and light, like vodka, but I'm not a girl, and I got bigger problems to drown than some clear, odorless liquid can tackle. Fasting gets me high, but only in a gets-me-through-the-day kind of way. Weed, beer, whiskey these are the go-to's.

Rider shakes off the night and shotguns the beer Tino's tossed him. He's not going to be able to walk out of here later, but better wasted than beat. These days it takes next to nothing to get me buzzed, but I never stop till way past that; drunk's nothing to me, obliteration's what I'm looking after.

Tino takes no time blending into the crowd and soon he's out of sight, ducked into some dark corner with a nameless someone, or someones. Leaning against the wall for support I look around, crack another beer, and survey the scene.

It's all the same — the booze, the girls, the guys, the music. I shake my head;  _same as it ever was._ Sometimes it seems like nothin's ever gonna surprise me, like nothin's gonna change. That's a darker thought than I'm looking to entertain tonight and I take another drink. Then two more.

Across the room Angela Chase is looking at me. I'm avoiding meeting her eyes but still I can feel her watching. It's not like her to be out at a thing like this. Well, who knows what it's like her to do? I never really took the time to get to know her, not really. And while I doubt it, there could be more to her than I saw; it's true of me for her.

She's standing there, holding her drink just at her lips, postponing that inevitable sip as she unrelentingly follows me with her eyes. I can't take that kind of attention. That much pressure, from a girl that small, it's unbelievable. With an eye roll I straighten up and move away from that spot.

...

Countless drinks into the night, when the music's switched from some garage sub-genre of thrash metal to this intense moody post-punk alt., the scene's darkened and everybody's about whatever they're about. By this point I'd found Tino, but lost him again. Rider's pretty much useless and I leave him to work it out or sleep it off on his own. I make may way back into the kitchen.

There she is again.

Looking. Watching. Waiting.

Once more I look away.

I don't want her.

I don't want her, but I do want to be wanted. I want to feel in control; I want to feel strong. Last night I was the kid who couldn't stand up, who couldn't say 'no'. Tonight I can elicit a 'yes'. Tonight is for feeling like a man. She'll give me that. She'll let me leave myself and disappear in her for a while. She'll do it because she wants me like I want him, and because she doesn't know to not let me get away with it.

I take her hand. It's so easy. I don't have to say anything and she's following in tow, down the hallway into a bedroom. I didn't smile, I really didn't even look at her and still she came.

I'd sworn her off. Too much effort, too much emotion, too many things she just didn't seem to get; too much ... ambivalence on my end. But when I went for her, and with no effort on my part, she came;  _is that kind of interest really something I want to throw away?_

Without a word I take hold of her face and pull her to me, kissing her hard. There is no working up to it, this  _is_  it. My tongue enters her mouth with purpose. I love how short girls are. If I can't have bulk I can be big in other ways. Wrapping my arms around her it's as though her tiny frame could fit into my arms multiple time over. My one arm easily encircles her entire waist, and for some reason it's a rush. I pull her in tighter and Angela Chase melts into me.

She's been waiting for this, and so I guess, in a way, have I.

Who I am with Tino is not who I am with her. For better or for worse Tino sees all of me, all there fucking is, and was, and probably ever will be. Which is... Well, it's complicated. But also strangely simple, 'cuz knowin' everything means you never have to put things in words, or explain about things, or feel ashamed. But with Angela, I can be who I want to be. Every part of me that I wish away doesn't have to exist when I'm with her. I can make myself up because she made me up too. With everyone else I'm simply nothing. I fade into the night. I'm the lover they don't have to love. I'm the rag they can toss aside, or that can toss them aside. And I love it.

I'm drunk enough to do this, and, her being her, she'll never know otherwise. It's so new for her anyway I'm not even factoring in, everything she does, everything she feels, touches, takes, tastes, it's all about her.

In short time I have her shirt off.

Mine follows — I think — and buckles and buttons and zippers ... From the alcohol, hunger, desire, my vision clouds in around me and in the darkness I fade into her...

I hear her gasp to catch her breath. Beneath my hands I feel her tremble; this means too much to her.

It means next to nothing to me.

She'll learn.

She  _should_  learn.

But that's not what this is. S _he_  went after  _me._ And I didn't sign on to teach any lessons. Besides, she knows. Somewhere in her she knows. After that first night in my car, after the boiler room, and Pike St., the night at the house, and Rayanne, and Cynthia, and standing her up and walking away all the the times I did —  _she knows._  She's not that dumb. And still she comes back. So in my book, she gets what this is about, enough to be a player. If she wants in the game I'm taking her off the bench, forget sitting out any penalties.

Her hair is like silk and smells something like— Well, I don't know what.  _The morning?_  I stop thinking about it. I am not there to think. I really don't know why I chose her. I could have ignored her. Could have walked right past. Shane's here. But that's old news and last year's dish. Rider would've been game I suspect, and I could've just picked up with Tino, we'd been heading in that direction already. Also there was Nate, Kirk, Laurence, Ollie, Cynthia, Karla,'n Kate. It didn't have to be her. Pretty much anyone other than her would have been less of a hassle, and maybe even, if possible, an easier get. But I took Angela Chase.

I took her. I'm not really into notch keeping or anything — 'n fact keeping a running tally 'd only depress the hell out of me — but, it's kind of a rush. And if she let me do it, it must say something special about me.

 _Right?_  ...

Not a lot special 's ever said about me. And if someone out there wants to decide to unconditionally love me, then I guess I'm not in the position to throw that away.

At this point I stop thinking altogether.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words mine. Story his. Show theirs.

I don't know how she got home. It's only a guess how I did. I'm not sure I  _am_  home...

What I do know is there's some kind of storm raging in my stomach and my head's convulsing, over and over, crashing in on itself while a sharp pain pierces out through itself. The thin frame of my body is heavy, laying leaden on the matress. I cannot budge. This must be what death is like, but somehow I keep waking.

I open my eyes when again someone nudges me and calls my name.

"Catalano."

It's Shane. I'm in Shane's bed. Just as well; it's better that I didn't go home last night. A working over like I got... —  _Jesus, I really can't keep track of the days_  — usually leaves me in the clear for a little while, but it's never smart to show up completely tanked. It's just not safe.

But it's a trust thing with friends — disappearing and reappearing.  _Where did they take you? What did they do? What did you do?_  Sex, drinking, mayhem, these things can keep you going in a suburban town like this. Which only goes to show, people have no idea what they're really looking at, even when it's right before their eyes.  _Story of my life._

I smell the coffee Shane's handed me; that's about all I can do, there's no way I could think about swallowing that now.

Shane's at my belt buckle, casually, one-handedly, close to dispassionately, undoing the buckle and moving to press down his thumb to pop the top button with one decisive motion. I push him off. (Shane's too desperate sometimes. He reminds me of the red head, what's 'er name.) Instead I'm thinking of the pretty boy with sad eyes who let me kiss him the other day. The newness of it's staying with me, through the fog, through the distractions; something about it 's lingering in the back of my mind.

Shane shrugs the rejection off and tosses me a fresh shirt, God knows I need it. I push myself up —  _shit; I forgot about my wrist_  — and rub at my eyes, "You makin' it to school?"

Shane laughs as he digs through a drawer to find me, I'm guessing, a pair of boxers, "Hadn't planned on it; knock yourself out though. But, uh," he adds as he chucks a wad of clothing at my head, "it's Saturday."

 _Figures._  Time, just ... disappears on me.

"Giddy up; it's twenty after eleven already." He ducks into the hall, "I got work."

After a shower, getting sick in the shower, and cleaning up and getting dressed, I swallow four spoonfuls of yogurt, palm five walnut halves, and follow Shane out the door to his car. I don't even know where mine is anymore.  _Is it at Tino's? My place; school? I didn't drive to Fitz's last night, did I?_

**...**

I end up at the loft for sort of an ad hoc band practice. It's not all the guys in  _the_  band, but there's enough guys for  _a_  band. We mess around for a couple hours. It's amazing how long I can stand for when there's a guitar in my hands.

After, Ollie goes with me to track down the Plymouth — which turned out to still be round the corner from Tino's. Who's disappeared again.

Back in my car, with nuthin' to do, I use my last $7.50 to fill up, then, just — drive around. People 're always complaining 'bout school, waitin' round for the weekend; 't never makes sense to me. 'Course I don't love sittin' through class, but leastways it gives me something to do — some kind of structure. Most days are just too damn long without it.

It's getting near four and with no school, no work, no Tino, and no one in particular I wanna see, I'm feeling pretty much adrift with a long pointless night looming out before me. Yesterday ( _was it yesterday?_ ) there were sparks — little electric explosions within myself, connecting me, however briefly, to someone else. Tino. Rickie. There was a jolt, and heat; the starting of something... Now? I'm stopped at a trafic light in an empty car with a still half-empty tank, staring down an empty bouvelard in an empty town looking at nothing to do. Seems like life is one long battle against inertia. Yesterday there was forward movement, or the possibility for it.  _Where has that potential gone to? Why does that,_ thing _, never last?_

 _Nothing ever lasts._  Nothing good. And still nothing ever changes: My dad's a grade-A asshole, _always_. Tino's just out of reach, always. I'm always the guy everybody wants but don't think they can get, so they take what they want and walk away. I don't mind it. I don't feel used. (Empty maybe.) The point is, I do it too. To all of 'em. I know how to get my way — get what I want, get outta something I don't: blink a little, crack a smile, give a deep sigh. It's easy. Just gets a little boring is all.

I just keep thinking,  _There's got to be something more..._

I role my eyes; _another damn thing I got in common with Rayanne Graff._

I guess that's where it comes from, that thing in her driving her the way it does — lookin' to  _feel_ something. Something real. Guess that's what that night was really about.  _God, was that ever a mistake._  I felt nothing. Maybe a little disgust.

Tired of the radio and out of preservation of my gas reserve, eventually I pull into the dirty back lot out behind Louie's. This place is more of a Tuesday, Thursday night thing, the crowd on a Saturday's noticeably older and tamer, but I'm not looking to go big tonight. And if I don't get my mind on something else fast I might have to eat something, which'll just make this whole day a waste. (My stomach lining can't take another purge right now.)

But I make a mistake in coming through from the back exit — force of habit — clearly I wasn't thinking when I put myself in the position of having to walk through a running kitchen. Ordinarily food doesn't much tempt me anymore, kinda like there was a divorce or something, but I swear the alcohol from last night 's still sloshing around inside me in some kind of toxic yellow swirl, and the warm, wafting smell of grease 's suddenly seeming like the answer, to a lot of different things. And who am I kidding? The little bit I'd be able to handle 'd never be enough to make any difference to my frame, but then again, that's not the point. It's not about size, it's about withholding, it's about control, and 'bout keeping something going for longer than a moment. Not eating a thing in an entire week? Nothing else lasts that long. Nothing. So I hold my breath, block out the smells of fries and burgers and normalcy, and push through to the front room which smells instead of stale cigarettes and beer. That I can live with.

Sprawled out in a corner booth I lean back and take in the room. There're a couple pool games going. I could get in there, make some quick money; probably should since I'm broke again. But I just keep sitting there.

Another thing I should 'a done was smoked a cigarette while I was still outside, or better yet, in my car. I'm getting close to really needing one but it's too cold outside, and Louie banned me for a month the last time I lit up inside.

No stranger to self-inflicted torture, I twirl my unlit cigarette between one finger to the next, allowing it to spin and drop and lift and balance. This partially works; while I'm still craving the nicotine, part of my smoking habit comes from it giving me something to do with my hands.

"Gonna light that?"

It's Joey.

I look up at him. "Might."

Joey doesn't give a shit. About a cigarette, about a skipped meal, or ten. About me. Joey Patterson doesn't give a shit about any of it, or anything, except himself, and his own good time.

And I halfway like him just because of it.

Joey's the anti-Tino. Without really knowing them they seem pretty much the same; he's just as reckless, just as explosive. But unlike Tino there's nothing else there to balance it out. He's a good enough guy to hang with, can crack a joke, mess around on an engine, keeps a strong beat on the drums, but there's no getting close to Joey. Tino's into the whole anarchy thing because he digs that sort of utopian political overthrow and the aesthetic of the music that goes with it; Joey wants to burn the world down. Tino works to make people laugh, Joey just laughs  _at_  them. Tino's got this air that he doesn't give a fuck; Joey really doesn't. People are naturally drawn in to Tino, they can't help it it's who he is; people follow Joey 'cuz he's sharp tongued, direct as shit, and knows what he wants. They're both unpredictable like hell.

"Nice eye," he starts gruffly. (Another thing he has in common with Tino, sarcasm. Only Joey's delivery lacks the glint of fun in Tino's.) "Hey, listen, Tino's got something going by the river; ya in?"

"Naw."

"Whut," he jeers. " _Too tired?_ " Like I said, he really doesn't care about anything, especially some dumb kid purposely starving himself. The way he sees it I could just — stop. And I kind of see his point. Only, I don't want to stop.

I scratch my jaw, "'s too cold." I say it, but it's clear I'm not getting my way on this one. Mostly its easier just to follow my friends, and wasn't I just bitching 'bout there being nothing to do? 'Sides, if it gets really cold, I'll stay in my car 'n stretch out in the backseat. (Maybe find someone to lay there with me.) Dully I rise, and follow him out to the cars.

...

On the embankment south of the second bridge from the interstate, Tino's set up a world of his own. Circled round the bonfire he's built he's pulled down two thrashed sofas from somewhere, a rug, of all things, two kegs, and a bunch of people. This isn't all a high school crowd. Our crowd's here, Shane, and Laurence, Tyler 'n Fitz, but mostly these are guys Tino works with, guys he rides with, women who've gone after him. Tino likes to keep his circle wide. I don't mind, so long as I can lean back, hang out, and stay on his mind, least a little.

I park, steady myself as I traverse down the path through the brush covered bank, side step through the groupings of people, and settle into one of the sofas. I finally smoke the cigarette I'd been waiting for, and steal myself 'gainst what may come next.

A couple people I know drift over and shoot the shit for a little while. One of 'em hands me a flask. Turns out Tino spent the day with some bikers he knows. They rode the two something hours (probably closer to one and three-quarters the way Tino rides) to Allegheny Forest and did some crow hunting. (Sound weird? So does every other thing the guy does.) There's no season on starlings and groundhogs either, but Tino refuses to shoot the birds because of something to do with the time he read some book about a park; my theory's Bill Murray won him over on the other. He had a hard time even with crows for a while when he got to like that song "Murder of One"; then we saw the Brandon Lee picture and he got over it fast. Harleys and hunting; it's easy to forget how different from me he is. Tino sometimes entertains this vision of himself as a good ol' boy from Tennessee or someplace. If he could be Huck Finn I swear he fucking would be. Maybe he is. Huck Finn, Robin Hood, Ferris Bueller, Rhett Butler, Han Solo. Every trickster rogue out there. That's Tino with a punk rock sensibilty and wicked taunting grin. Right now he's probably setting up a still somewhere. The way he likes to stand out is the way I like to blend in.

The music sucks, and it's not loud enough. Clearly Tino's passed this off to someone else. Or else he's occupied with something else. I blow three smoke rings in a row. Used to manage more, but my lung capacity's down.

Laurence passes by and without a word drops a banana in my lap. It's from Tino I know, but he's nowhere about when I look around. Leave it to Tino to lose himself in a party and still have the wherewithal to fortify me with food. Infantilizing as it is, and as cagey as it sometimes makes me feel, there's also a little thrill that comes with it, and a part of me that loves him for it.  _Christ._

_Do I do this so he'll fucking stop me?_

I chuck the banana into the four-foot flames. I do not want to be saved. Much as it looks like it, I don't need it.

"Hey; I saw that."

Against all odds it's Rickie Vasquez standing in front of me. "What're you doing here?"

He shrugs, takes a step closer. "Rayanne. Tino. You know."

How Tino can fault me for the thing with Chase and still keep at this ongoing thing with Rayanne Graff is beyond me. Least the thing with Angela is simple; Tino, the way I see it, 's all caught up in complicated I-don't-know-what with Graff.

Rickie takes another step forward, I watch as he sets his knee on the raggy arm of this broken down sofa. I'm very aware of how close to me that's positioned him. He bites that plump lower lip of his, and looks at me from those baby eyes. "Can't believe I never saw it before." He means the not eating thing.

"Well," I yawn, "guess ya gotta be looking." With him looking at me that way I can't help it and I flutter my lashes. "Someone's gotta care to look." Sometimes I can't stop flirting to save my sorry life.

Encouraged, I think, he pushes on, "Why? Why do you do it?" I look at him.  _Do I tell him?_ No one but Tino's ever asked; the guys just leave me be. I exhale.

"I don't know..." I scratch the back of my head and try to sort it all out. "Just when you think you can't take it anymore? And your body's gonna collapse in on itself? You ride it out; an' then you're fine again. At least for a few more hours. It's," I think a little on how to put it, "this, _thing_ , that I can do. It's a rush, like... long distance running." The analogy doesn't seem to have gone over, the kid's lookin' at me like I'm crazy.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yeah it fucking hurts. Your body's dying. But, if you can take that, you can take anything."

"You really have got shit for brains, don't you." Suddenly Tino's there and he's slapped me across the backside of the head.

" _Hey_ ," I gripe, looking back at him. "I don't judge your shit."

"Yeah, yeah," he patronizes as he climbs the sofa back and takes a seat. "I don't throw it in your face every minute of every goddamn day do I though?" Arrogantly triumphant he answers for me, " _Yeah_." It seems like he'd made his point but he keeps going. "When was the last time I fainted? Had to be dragged to the nurse, to the doctor, to the hospital? How many bathroom floors have you had to peal me off of?" I start to answer because Tino does Drink. With a capital 'D', and experimentation is his ethos, but I let him him cut me off because I know what he's going to say: "Not anywhere in the same goddamn ball park."

"Okay," I acquiesce. "Lay off."

" _You_  'lay off'." But he's already cooled down and yielded easily when I shoved him over. He never stays mad long. Not actually; not at me. Though that itself can set 'im off. Tino doesn't like how much he loves me. Sex stuff aside. He doesn't like the responsibility caring so much lays on him. But it's his, and he shoulders it for me. Good thing too, with my frame, I couldn't carry the weight.

Rickie moves to edge away but with little motion I reach out and take hold his sleeve. Tino reaches across me and pushes a bottle of something into his hands. Rickie takes it, but he won't drink it. I don't know much, but that I do know.

The night moves on. Music's played, drinks consumed, logs piled on. At the end of all of it we three make our way back to Tino's. His mom's still at work I guess an' we got the place to ourselves. Though things 've been cool all night, when I move to touch Tino's hand, softly intertwining my fingers with his, he pulls away and focuses his attention on Vasquez.

Turn's out Tino's pissed. He found out about Angela Chase.

He wasn't showing it all night, but it's coming out now. Rickie's heard too. Whether he heard from her or from him it isn't clear, but I can see now he's having a hard time reconciling it. Suddenly I'm on the outs with both these guys.  _How'd this happen?_

We're talking, but in that way where it seems like it's all three of us but it's really just the two of them. I know that move. I've pulled that move; more times than I can count.

I kick my feet off the table, shrug on my jacket, and head for the door. Tino doesn't say a word and the door shuts behind me. He's proving a point.

 _Well, let 'im._  We're friends. When it comes down to it, we're just friends. We're not sp'osed to get jealous, or territorial, or pass judgement. Which, is what he's doing. So it happened with Chase. So what? It wasn't 'bout covering something up, which is what he's faulting me for, so he can just deal with it. I'm done with being pulled six ways at once.

It's questionable whether if I try to drive right now I'd make it all the way home. I opt to hitch. 's safer, and has the promise of something.

Walking backwards down the road, thumb jerked into the street, I let my mind wander and I think about...

Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, how's it going? This is as far as I've written, except a paragraph I love but have yet to find a place in which to insert it. Do I keep going? (I like how dark this story is — if it had a theme song it would be Bright Eyes' "Lover I Don't Have to Love" but a resolution or ending point is eluding me...) Any/all thoughts on any part of the story are most welcome! :-)
> 
> ... Story not abandoned, but on a pretty lengthy hiatus. Thank you for reading!!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words mine. Story his. Show theirs.

It's been two days of drifting. Sunday 's a blur. I made it home from Tino's before I lit up and passed out, then the day just passed me by. Can't say with what. Still pissed at Tino I cut school yesterday and drove up past the city to my uncle's.

I don't know what it is that I can get along with him all right but not with my own fuckin' father, but it's always been that way. Nick sold me his car cheap, he'll spot me cash or put me up when I really need it. Only thing is, he doesn't get between me an' my old man. Not really. I mean, he's saved my ass a few times, stepped in, diverted action, but he hasn't ever changed the game. My old man beats me, and my uncle knows it. If you think any about it, all his diversionary tactics to run interference on my behalf ain't worth a damn; not even _he_  think's it's solving the real problem. But I  _don't_  think about it. Because if I did, I'd probably have to hate him as much as I do my dad, and that'd leave me with exactly one adult in the world giving a shit about me, and it's too bleak, and I've got too much else to deal with, to have Tino's mom — a person I'm not even related to — be the only person over thirty in my corner. So I don't think about it too hard, and I count Uncle Nick as an ally, and am careful not to over-rely. Like every other fucking thing, I guess it's complicated. They're brothers. And it means something to both of 'em. I don't position myself between them. Nobody'd win like that; especially me.

Nick likes me okay though. I know that. I'm older than his boy by three years, and the things about me, that really enrage my dad, never really faze him. Nick's cool with my shit, I guess 'cuz he's cool with me. I figure if Tino had a kid I'd love the hell out of him. So instead of making it to school we worked on my car some and shot the shit a while. When my cousin Ryan got home we picked up a coup'l o' six packs and drove around all night.

It's a relief sometimes to take sex completely off the table. As easy as it can be to get, everything that builds up to it and comes after it can get exhausting. Even making out, or basic grade-school fooling around. Sometimes it's all right just to catch a buzz, whatever the source, and just be. Operating all the time just to get off is fucked. And it confuses the shit out of me. And I don't think all that clearly to begin with.

The thing is, I'm getting bored.

Not just with sex but with all of it. Even the hunger.

Boreder than bored. 'Cuz the not eating used to be a way out of the boredom. Something to occupy my mind when nothing else did. Something that could trump any other pain I was feeling. Something I could ride out till the shit around me altered.  _Was it ever meant to be forever? Is Tino right, does there eventually have to be an end point? To all of it?_ 'Cuz I'm not feeling anything the way I used to, and _this_  emptiness is different. It's duller, and wider, and blacker, and there's nothing about it that feels good. And I can't figure when it got this way.

I slam shut the door to the Plymouth and make my way to the south entrance. Somehow in this void I still made it to school. Guess any kind of habit's hard to break if you keep it long enough. It's the south entrance 'cuz goin' in through the main entrance risks running into Foster, or Tino, and the east entrance is too close to where Vasquez spends most of his time. I don't wanna see anyone.

I mostly show at school 'cuz it fills the day and it's where everybody is. Plus, so much can happen in a day a person can be a year behind in news after missing just a couple days, but today I'm just looking for something to drown out the static buzzing through my head. Any more time on my own and I'm going to lose it. A history lecture and math lesson is just the grey noise I need to knock me out of my own head. Maybe after a good day's sleep I'll feel more like myself again.

But I don't make it into the building.

"Hi."

It's Angela. Chase. She's not smiling. It's pretty evident this isn't one of those times when she's trying to get, keep, and hold my interest. It's more than clear she's not interested in a smile. I don't even nod. "Hey."

"So," she squints up at me, "am I crazy, or do you owe me a conversation."

"'A conversation'?" I shoot at her. I don't really have a call to be mean to her, but the last couple days 've been shit — Tino's being weird, and it looks like nuthin's gonna come of that thing with Vasquez — and here she is coming at me like I stole sum'in off her. I look at her, "Yeh? Why now?" I only took what she laid on me; and last thing I need is baby Angela Chase getting attached. "Don't remember you needin' one before." That was a shitty thing to say to 'er, given ev'rything, but I said it anyway. Those big eyes of hers stare me down. Honestly I didn't think she'd be so hard to scare off. Pinned there, I look away, clear my throat, swipe at my nose with my thumb, then look back at her. She's still there, standing her ground. "Sure," I nod dully. "Okay."

I can pretty much tell she's waiting for me to say something first, but while I'm down with the post hook-up check-in, that's not what this is. Remotely. I'm not saying anything. "So...?" she looks at me. "Is that it? You ever going to speak to me again?"

Granted there hasn't been much chance for it, given I haven't seen her since that night at Fitz's and I've been laying low since Tino brushed me off, but, yeh, I would'a been avoiding her if it'd crossed my mind. "I'm talking to you."

I watch as her eyes roll. She does that a lot. Not as well as I do, but more often. I'll bet a lot of people have a hard time living up to this girl's expectations. "I can't believe this," she mutters. " _Why_  did you—?" She cuts herself off. Seems like she does that a lot too. No one's happier talking than Angela Chase, but I wonder how often she actually says what she means.  _Not that I care..._

Words or no, I'm getting the feeling that she hates me. And I wonder, where she gets off hating me for her choice to follow me into a room she had no business walking into other than she wanted to. There was no other possible result from that walk down that hallway than what happened; I don't care how naive you are. I wonder also what's worse: Angela Chase hating me or Angela Chase in love with me. 'Cuz it  _all_  feels like a hassle.

_Damnit. When did I get this cold?_

There she goes again, looking at me that way. Her eyes are big, like they get; something's coming, so I cut her off. "What do you want? To be me my girlfriend?"  _Shit. I don't know why I'm so mean to her._

"Nobody said I was your girlfriend. Least of all me." That made me feel worse. "You might remember though, you're the one who took my hand. You're the one who offered me rides, who came to my house, who slipped me notes in my locker. Who kissed me."  _Jesus, she has a point. I did do all that._  "You, even, went to the trouble to copy a love note so I wouldn't be mad at you when it was a hundred times easier just to let it go and let me hate you." She looks at me, like she's daring me to counter her, "Either you're a complete  _sociopath_ , or you feel something."

 _Fuck._  I don't have anything to say to that. Maybe I am a socio— what she said. 'Cuz, I  _was_ playing with her; I know I was. She was a distraction from Tino and she was a kind of alibi for my old man, and she was— Well, she was a lot of things. But she's right: there were times I took it too far if it was just a game. I didn't have to go and seek her out all those times I did, and I could've let it drop all the different times it fell apart, but she's right — something, I guess, always made me go back. So maybe I did feel something. But it's not anything I'm feeling now. I'm not feeling anything. I'm empty as hell. "You're the one who showed up to Tino's party." It comes out with an edge, but still, it was a stupid thing to say.

"I went into that house looking for a sink. I wasn't looking for you. And  _you_  started  _that_  conversation as well."

I blink, and shake my head, she's confusing me. Because all she's sayin' I guess is true, but, but it's not how things  _are._  "Conversation doesn't mea—"

"I never said it did."

I keep forgetting she can get this way; she's not always a puppy dog at heel. She can stand her ground when she wants to, and then she's the last person I want to deal with. Even my old man makes sense — in an asshole-y kind a way — I never know what  _she's_  talking about. My eyes narrow, "So, what's this about?"

The look she gives me shuts me up. "It's about the other night. It's about having an actual conversation." She looks at me, and she does not blink. "You know I never did that before."

"Yeh," I kind of snort, "I know."

"What, is that you being mean?"

"Don't do that," I tell her flatly.

"What?"

"Play the victim."

"I'm  _not_. I'm not a 'victim.'"

"Right. You were a virgin, now you're not. You should do it some more, you'll get better at it."

I'm surprised she swallowed the dig so well, and came back at me only with: "But not with you?" It's not exactly a question so much as statement of what she perceives is in my head.

I shrug. "With whoever."

She looks at me again. It's the kind of look you give something that for the life of you you can't figure out. Angela Chase can't figure me out. I gotta think that's what keeps her hanging around, which, doesn't make any sense to me. Her brow clenches as she asks me, "Doesn't  _anything_  mean something to you?"

There's no talking to her. Everything's such a big deal. What's so wrong with letting an experience  _be_  the experience? No words necessary? Why after a thing happens does it have to be talked about and discussed and gone over? Can't a thing just be what it is and then left in the past? How does anything become a memory if everything's constantly being hashed over? How is there ever any room for something new if all the old stuff's still real and in its way?

"So, you gonna tell me what this was all about?" she asks. She really can't let anything be.

I let my eyes go dull and I play dumb, "What what was all about?"

The look she gives me leaves no question about what she thinks of me. "The  _letter_. The boiler room. The showing up at my house. What was all that? You  _slept_  with me."

"You slept with m _e_." It's not much of comeback, but is the truth. She did sleep with me. She didn't say anything while it was happening. I didn't give her much of a chance to, but maybe she should o' thought a lot of this over a long time ago. Where'd she think all this was leading if not to right here? She showed up at that party, in no small part looking for me, no doubt, and that's  _after_  everything else that's gone down. She could have pushed me off or turned me down or stopped playing along at every point. But she never did.

The way I see it there's nothing much to say.

Angela Chase is green, but she wasn't born yesterday. If she didn't like what she was getting in me — and even clueless about the particulars she must'a had a pretty good idea of who I am — she shouldn't 've gone along with it. Wasting time on regret is the stupidest thing I can think of.  _Do it, and move on._

"I know you don't love me—"

"' _Love_?'"  _Where is that coming from?_

"I know you never really said the words, but—"

"'Never said the words'? Angela." I look at her; she really needs a reality adjustment. "When have I even been nice, or halfway decent to you?"

"Plenty of times. You've been awful, yes, but you've been sweet, and you know it. Even if you've decided you don't want to remember it."

I've had enough of this; if I let it this conversation could stretch out into the next year. Girls do that — always talk in circles. "Wha-at, do you wa-ant?" The irritation and impatience in my voice is nothing to the cold blow of disinterest.

I watch her swallow. I'd be impressed that she hasn't backed down yet, if it weren't me she 's standing up to. "I want to know, why out of every person at that party you came and found  _me_. I want to know why you did it, knowing what you know about me, and now you're mad at me. I want to know why you'd do  _that_  with me but not talk with me."

She watches me, it seems without blinking, while I light a cigarette, then just miss exhaling in her face. After another drag I look at her. "Whuddu'ya wanna talk about."

Angela Chase glares at me, then starts again. "It wasn't Pike Street."

"Huh?" I take another drag and look at her. "What's that mean?"

"The other night. It wasn't Pike Street." I still don't get what she means. "I  _didn't_  go up to you. I was minding my own business."

 _Minding her own business like hell. She was if that's what you call following me around with her big wide eyes all night._  "Why were you even there?"

"So because I was there it automatically must've had something to do with you?"  _Damn. She could be a lawyer the way she knocks back everything I say._  "I just  _knew_  you were going to show?" she presses. "Did  _you_  even know you were going to end up there?" _I guess that's a decent point..._  " _Fitz_  invited me.  _You're_  friend. He said you wouldn't be there."

I don't know why I say this next thing: "So you're just going out with anybody now?"

"I  _dare_  you to say that again to me." She is really pissed.

I just sigh, and I think my eyes probably roll.

I shouldn't care when she says this, but for some reason, I do. "You are a truly awful person." She means it too. At least in this moment. And I shouldn't care. After all this time of not caring, I shouldn't care what she says, or thinks of me. After all the shit I've taken from my father I should be able to take this one sentence off a 100 pound girl a good head shorter than me.

Only, it cuts. I don't know why.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and for the reviews! Chapters 1-6 were originally posted March/April 2013 on a different site and it's taken till now to get this next chapter up. I love this story but it may be a long while before it is updated again, my apologies. An end point is majorly eluding me, but it is a fun story to occupy while writing :) Would love to hear your thoughts! Take Care, ~JB


	8. Chapter 8

I never made it to class. I watched her walk away and then I turned right around and walked back to my car. I just sat there. Empty. Her words clamoring and echoing in my head refusing to be pushed back, or drowned out. They’re not lingering they’re hounding me. Everything ‘s hounding me, an’ I’m starting to get the things I do – or don’t – ‘ve got ways of comin’ back round; an’ m’bye all this jus’ walkin’ away ‘s not gonna change anythin’. Maybe I can’t just not do anything…  
‘Cuz something sure as hell’s not working for me anymore. Everything’s gone to shit and I can’t make a decision or take a stand on anything. Can’t even feed myself. And what had made me feel strong, and able to endure, now’s got me feeling like the world’s worst joke.  
And then the thoughts just come crashing down.  
‘Hunger’? -- what is that?  
What have been doing to myself?  
How much of my life am I missing out on by tuning out, by disappearing, by fading away into a dull and cutting nothingness? By ignoring the shit surrounding me just by creating different chaos all my own?  
Maybe some of what Tino’s been dumping on me finally ‘s gotten through. But still I don’t move. I chain smoke two cigarettes before I even get my key in the ignition. Blindly, methodically, I take in breathes of slow self-inflicted drawn-out asphyxiation. This is what steadies me, self-inflicted cancer. In it comes and out it goes, a kind of tantric meditative sort of pleasure death. When I really open my eyes to it all, I see just how in everything I do I live in the bridge of collapse. Purposefully edging towards the… precipice. I think about whether that’s the word I was looking for or not, then I take another long drag, and deeper I inhale.  
I make the second one last, smoking the thing right down to the filter. Would’ve lit a third except I’m running low, and ‘d rather not run out ‘fore I c’n replenish my supply. A relied upon vice has got to be rationed and accounted for. Opening the plastic wrap on a new pack, peeling back the foil and packing the carton, it’s method. It’s ritual. It’s a thing my hands do without thought. With a new pack a person can afford to be careless, pass ‘em out like they’ll never run out, but there’s always an end, and eventually you’re staring down another empty carton playing head games with yourself ‘bout how long you can last without a fix. I’ll go days without eating, but even my self-denial has its limits; a cigarette calms the nerves. It’s the conversation you don’t want to have, it’s the eye contact you want to avoid, it’s the exit out of the room you don’t want to be in, and the food you’re not eating and the words you’re not speaking. A full carton is weaponry against it all. The last of the pack tears away that little piece of armor. Every last cigarette burns with it a little cash-bought bit of comfort, and to be without it, that net, is a discomfort better not felt. This habit costs me, but what else would I do with my hands?  
I let the radio play, and then I just sit, narrowing my eyes, focusing on trying to see the last of the smoke dissipate into the stale air. There’s nowhere to go. School was my last hope, but there’re too many people in there pissed at me right now, and it’ll be better to stay away till they can figure out a way to get over it – it’s not gonna happen because of something I say. I never know what to say. But if I keep quiet and give ‘em just a taste of what they want, or withhold something just a little, things usually work out in my favor. Tino says I’m hard to stay mad at. An’ though I think it makes her crazy I think Angela Chase would agree; I don’t know why though. My old man sure as hell would not agree. He’s been pissed at me my whole life. Fig’ers; can’t ever give him what he wants. An’ stayin’ away ‘s never turned out to work to my advantage when I do finally come back around. All he sees is the whipping boy returned.  
Guess I should say something, about him, to someone -- to someone other than Tino -- but I don’t know much who that would be. And where would it get me? I’m too old to start in with the state system; ‘least this way I’ve got my freedom. ‘Least this way he’s got to at least foot part of the bill of my being alive. At least all his reasons for hating me are bullshit, and on him, and in his fucked up head. At least everything between us right now is his fault, and I’m not a rat. Can’t help him feel the victim. So I say nothing. And run down the list again of everyone who should’ve noticed something’s off about my home life who never have.  
I don’t know why I do it. It’s no great comfort knowing just how many people don’t see you when they look at you. I erase myself all the time, with fasting delirium and booze an’ joints – and sex – but that’s me doing it. Other people in my life have been erasing me for years. Maybe that’s where I learned it…  
At some point I start my car. They do periodic sweeps of the student parking lots; if I’m cutting the whole day, I’d rather not spend it in the admin. office getting processed and lectured and classified and completely misunderstood. I drive, but there’s nothing to do. I can’t sleep, there’s no one to see, I’m too clear-headed right now to just drift away for a couple hours, and even with my radio blaring it’s too fucking quiet and I can’t push back the sounds of Angela Chase’s words, and of the quiet chatter exchanged behind me that night I left Rickie Vasquez alone with Tino at his place.  
All these voices crowd in on me. And memories. Memories of hands, and lips, and tangled limbs. Are they hers? Are they mine? Are they Tino’s? Or Shane’s? Or countless other faceless, nameless lays? Or are they his? Rickie’s?  
All tangled up and wrapped into each other it’s hard to differentiate the experiences, hard to mark some as mistakes and others as worthwhile, and others as necessary. Do I ‘need’ any of it? I’ve got myself thinking I could be in love with Tino, but that’s—  
That’s just ‘cuz he’s my brother. Being with Tino means being with family, family that won’t try to bash my head in against a wall. With Tino I don’t have to be anybody. With everyone else, I don’t have to be me. I think about the kid Rickie, or, Rickie flashes through my head. There’s something about him, something that makes him different. Something that keeps him appearing in my thoughts. He’s more like the girl, like Angela, than like anybody else – new to things, and not… Jaded.  
He’s sad though. Underneath. Beneath the silly things he does with Angela, and the out-there clothes, and the antics with Rayanne Graff – he’s sad. It’s in his eyes, how they pool. He’s scared too. That’s in his eyes too – the way they shift, the way they never fully look at you at first. The way you kind of always feel like you’re starting from square one with him. He’s got defenses up. Anyone who’d know what to look for could see ‘em. Rickie Vasquez is the dog that wants like hell tuh be let in, but’s been kicked too many times to ever ask. Through his dimples, and that crazy-cute bashful smile, he’s sad.  
I understand sad. And I understand scared. And I wonder if that sadness is something I’m trying to avoid, or the thing that’s pulling me in. Rickie’s like Angela Chase. In the way there’re things about her that despite myself I guess I kind of came to like. The way she looks at me, like I’m the guy who’s got it all figured out. An’ the way she kisses me, like it’s so brand new, like she’s never done it before instead of the hundreds an’ hundreds of times I have. She looks at things in the world like they should make sense, like they fit together in some way that’ll work out and be all right; I don’t know how Rickie Vasquez looks at the world, or what he sees when he looks, probably nothing like what she sees, but also like nothing else I see. He’s different. He’s quiet.  
It seems like he sees things, like he’s always seeing what’s around him. I’m that way. Or I used to be. Mostly I’m too out of it to see much these days. But I get the feeling he does. No matter how surprised he seemed to play it in Tino’s car the other day when I let ‘slip’ what I did. Guess the question now is – or just one of tons that don’t have any clear answers: Do I want him to see me?  
I fade myself away so often ‘cuz I don’t want to deal, because I don’t want to be. It’s like, I’m not seen, if I’m not really there. So many people never look close enough to notice anyway, or their big dumb eyes are already too filled up with what they want to see; only Tino’s been there through it all, seeing all of me. Not Rider, or Shane, or Cynthia Hargrove. Only Tino. But now he’s not even looking at me, much less seeing me, an’ it’s got something to do with there all’a sudden being two other people looking much closer than anybody else has ever bothered.  
Blind little Angela Chase might not see me for all I am, but what’s eating at me as I drive – using up what’s close to the last of the gas my cousin spotted me – is that maybe, back on those steps outside the school, she saw enough. She looked at me like I was a monster, like I was worthless, like I truly am a piece of shit. I know that look; it’s easy ‘nough to recognize, been getting it my whole life. But the thing of it is, when my dad looks at me that way, I know it’s in part at least because of what he saw that night, of what he knows, about me, and that’s what makes it okay – not ‘okay’, but – I know it’s bullshit. It’s him, it’s not me. But, with Angela? It really is me. The thing she hates me for? I did it. I gotta own it; she’s earned to look at me like a piece of shit. And I can’t just shrug it off. ‘Cuz, what she charged me with so many weeks and months ago in that stupid boiler room I think is true: I do care. I care what this girl thinks of me, even if everything I was giving her to go on was false, or only half-true. Even if she grates my nerves, and pushes me on things I’m rather ignore.  
I could have let her hate me. It’s true. So many times I could have let her hate me, and just let it go. Or I could’ve let her keep on loving me from afar and never started anything up with her in the first place. I should have just walked right by her that night the boys an’ me were meeting Tino at that club. Something though made me call out to her, and something made me seek her out at school, and that something means I care what she thinks of me. In the end, she can think a lot of things about me, but I don’t want her thinking of me as dirt. That’s too far a drop to live with.  
I’m not as good at being hated as I pretend to be.  
And that brings me back to him. Back to the other pair of big doe-eyes now watching me. Rickie. Least he had been watching me. Watching, blushing, fluttering. Till he saw me differently too. I drove them both off, and with them this time Tino. And now I’m alone. Really alone.   
I pull up at the loft. I’ve got my key. With nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to do it with, no chance of sleep or likelihood to drift away, I settle for my guitar. Which is not a settlement at all. Music. I can lose myself for hours in music. And I can do that sober as anything and on a full stomach. (Which, I don’t have.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this installment didn't exactly move the story forward... sorry about that. Thanks to those of you sticking around with this story! So sorry it comes so slowly. Likely to be another long while before another post with this one. (Promise some actual dialogue next time!)


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